


The Queen's Jewels

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [10]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Pre-Canon, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case: Garrett Fowler causes trouble for Neal when jewels belonging to Marie Antoinette are stolen. Neal's graduate school friends help clear his name. Mozzie begins exploring the university tunnels. Angst. Fencing scenes. Fluff: Thanksgiving at Columbia and with Peter's parents. November 2004. #10 in Caffrey Conversation AU where Peter recruited Neal instead of arresting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Queen is Attacked

_Notes: Although this story is part of a series it can be read on its own. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and was hired as a consultant for the FBI. For followers of the Caffrey Conversation AU, The Queen's Jewels takes place in November 2004 after The Woman in Blue._

* * *

**Federal Building. November 8, 2004. Monday morning.**

During the ten months Neal Caffrey had been working for the FBI, his preconceived ideas of what his job as a consultant would be like had undergone a major rewrite. When Peter Burke had recruited him in St. Louis back in December, Neal had pictured he'd be working undercover, solving crimes in the field, living a life full of danger and excitement. After all he wasn't an agent, he was a valued consultant, and as such they wouldn't be wasting his talents on paperwork. Right—the halcyon days of innocence.

Now a seasoned veteran of almost a year and fully cognizant of the more dismally boring aspects of his job, Neal had amused himself by developing a ranking system for his assignments. At the top of the scale was running a con, or "conducting an undercover op" as the FBI preferred to call it. Same thing. The fine art of manipulation. A game of chess with living chess pieces.

Also high on the list was being paid to make a forgery. Unfortunately those opportunities were rare. More common was consulting on a museum heist—an excellent opportunity to show off his expertise legally. Being called in to authenticate a painting or detect a counterfeit signature, while not at the top of the scale, was also a worthy field of endeavor.

Then there were the chores residing in the cellar. Mortgage fraud cases. Who knew there were so many of them? Was every mortgage transaction in New York a fraud? Only slightly higher on the scale were copyright infringements.

And today Neal gloomily enshrined another assignment in the cellar: cold case inventory.

He and Jones had been at work since early in the morning in the cold case vault, checking off case files against the database. The only saving grace was that he wasn't there alone, or he would have passed out from boredom long ago. Was boredom an officially recognized illness? Could one get workers' compensation for excessive boredom? That was in need of investigation.

"Still waiting on TF20312," Jones called out. "Did you find it yet?"

Resuming his perusal of the shelf, Neal said, "If it's here, it's been stored out of order. I'll check the other shelves." Moving the step ladder, he started at the top of the shelving unit.

"I'll work on the unit next to yours," Jones offered. As he got up from his chair, he grimaced and put a hand to his back.

"What'd you do to your back?"

"The hazards of babysitting. I was taking care of my nephew Ethan last Saturday, and we got a little carried away. After watching _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , he chased me around the house with his pirate's sword. That kid's fast! We were swashbuckling on the stairs and I tripped."

"How old is Ethan?"

"He just turned seven. Last year it was lightsabers. That's all he wanted to play with. Now in addition to Luke Skywalker, he fancies himself another Jack Sparrow. How young were you when you started fencing?"

"Ten. I had my own glory years with a lightsaber before that. Ethan and I are kindred souls. His parents may want to consider fencing lessons for him."

Jones paused scanning though the files. "Isn't he too young?"

"Not at all. There's a big push to begin fencing at an early age. At the Chelsea Club where I fence they start as early as age four. They use plastic or foam swords so it's safe. Fencing's great physical exercise and teaches kids to think strategically. It's been called a physical version of chess."

"Ethan would be in pirates' heaven," Jones chuckled as he resumed his file perusal. "I should speak with his parents. It'd make a great Christmas gift. The Chelsea Club … that's where you keep up your Gary Rydell alias, isn't it? Did the FBI ever reimburse you?"

"That was a story," Neal said with a laugh. "Eureka, I found file 20312. Hiding out in the 40000's. It's back where it belongs now. What's next on your list?"

Jones consulted his spreadsheet. "PZ30505"

"Right . . ." Neal squatted down to scan the files on the bottom shelf. "On the fencing reimbursement, Peter agreed, finally, once I convinced him I wasn't asking for the FBI to subsidize fencing stolen goods. That took a while. You can check off PZ30505."

"There should be two addenda to that one," Jones cautioned. "Probably separate folders, marked A101 and B212. I don't think Ethan's ever seen real fencing. Did you decide to join the club at Columbia?"

"Yeah, I went ahead . . . found the addenda. You can scratch them off. Were they the last ones? You should come to a match sometime. We're fencing against Harvard in a couple of weeks. Isn't that your alma mater?"

"For law school. I could drag out my old t-shirt. Ethan's never seen the Columbia campus."

"Aren't you two done yet?" Peter had walked in to check on their progress. He no doubt wanted to verify they hadn't succumbed to manila folder fumes.

"Just wrapping up," said Jones. "There were few cases that had been misfiled. We only have a couple left to find."

"Neal, did I hear right? Are you fencing in a competition?"

"Yep, I bet you thought I enrolled in Columbia for the art program," he said. "Now you know it was only because I'm such a jock." Ever since Neal began studying for his master's in art at Columbia, he'd realized his college activities had become a hot topic of conversation at White Collar. It was like everyone was trying to relive their own college experiences through him. At first he'd found it a little disconcerting to have his studies be discussed so openly. Not that he minded the attention, but he was more accustomed to showing off scam techniques than to be lectured on how to write a paper. But he enjoyed the banter plus he was acquiring insights about his teammates he wouldn't have otherwise obtained.

Diana walked into the vault, cutting off Peter's rejoinder. "So this is where you're hiding out. Has this become the new man cave? Peter, Hughes sent me to find you."

"C'mon, Caffrey," urged Jones. "Two files to go. I'll search for one; you find the other. The loser completes the paperwork."

"You're on."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Ten minutes later, Neal was sitting back at his desk tossing a rubber band ball in the air while Jones was still in the cold case vault filling out the forms. It'd been close. Jones probably would have won, if his back weren't bothering him. Neal hoped Jones would bring Ethan to the meet. He liked to portray himself as the smooth and collected professional. What would he be like with a mini-pirate in tow?

It wasn't long before Peter called Neal upstairs along with Jones and Diana. It seemed strange that Agent Tricia Wiese wasn't with them. She was in Washington D.C. for a special assignment and would be gone for at least two months.

Peter got straight to the point. "The reason Hughes wanted to see me was this," and he projected a photo of an armored truck cordoned off in an underpass off FDR Drive. It was surrounded by NPYD cars and ambulances. "At approximately five o'clock this morning the truck was forced off the road by armed robbers. The driver and guard were both killed. The truck was discovered by a passing patrol car a short time later. So far no witnesses have come forward."

"Not normally our type of case. Why were we called in?" Jones asked.

"Because of the item that was taken. Apparently only one package was stolen. According to the manifest it was to be delivered to Regnier's Jewelers on Fifth Avenue. When the police found out what was inside the package, they called on us for assistance."

Neal's mind raced through the possibilities. Regnier's carried some of the most expensive jewelry in Manhattan. Any item that was singled out for a robbery like this had to be something extraordinary. "Does it have something to do with their upcoming exhibition?" he asked.

"Good guess," Peter said. "The package that was stolen contains a pair of diamond earrings which once belonged to Marie Antoinette. They were being lent by the Smithsonian to Regnier's for their holiday exhibition. What do you know about it?"

"The exhibition is called _The Queen's Jewels_ and is scheduled to open next week, running through December. Regnier's is known for mounting elaborate window displays during the holidays, and this year they're featuring the court of Marie Antoinette. Inside the store, the exhibition will include—correction—was scheduled to include the earrings, a ring she once owned, plus reconstructions of her famous necklace and the Tavernier Blue, the precursor to the Hope Diamond. There was a write-up in _The New York Times_ about it on Sunday."

"All NYPD provided Hughes was that it was a pair of Marie Antoinette's earrings from the Smithsonian," Peter said. "We don't have the description yet."

Diana was searching on her laptop as he spoke. Looking up, she said, "Found a description on the Smithsonian website, boss. Two large, pear-shaped diamonds, weighing 14.25 and 20.34 carats. You have to admire the woman—she had strong earlobes."

"NYPD's handling the case but we've been charged with tracking down the earrings." Peter scanned the group. "Thoughts?"

"Given the history behind them, the earrings are priceless," Neal said. "But they're also extremely difficult to fence because they're so well-known. I suppose it's conceivable somebody might cut up the diamonds, but then most of the value would be lost. I can't imagine anyone committing a sacrilege like that. It's more likely the robbery was a special commission with a private buyer already lined up. That would the earrings difficult to trace."

"What about the other pieces for the exhibition?" Jones asked. "Are they already at the store?"

Peter said, "You should look into that. Contact Regnier's and check out their security measures. Diana, I want you and Neal to research the database for possible buyers. Also check for any thieves who match the robbery profile."

Diana nodded as she made a note. "I'm curious to know how the thieves knew about the timing of the shipment. Did they receive a tip off from someone within the Smithsonian?"

"Good question," Neal commented. "Regnier's has been promoting the exhibition for the past month. That's plenty of time for someone to develop a plan to access the Smithsonian's shipping database."

When Neal left the briefing, he called Mozzie. "Could you do a little sniffing around? We have precious little to go on. I have a class this evening, but I could touch base with you afterwards."

"I'll ping the ether," he promised. "I would expect there's a regal reward in keeping with the significance of the earrings."

"That would be a safe assumption. I'll check into it for you."

Researching jewelry owned by Marie Antoinette didn't take long. So few of the pieces had survived the French Revolution. The Hope Diamond, or the French Blue as it was also known, was the most spectacular. Understandable why the Smithsonian wouldn't lend it out. In any case, the ring that Regnier's was going to exhibit was exciting enough. It was owned by an anonymous individual and hardly ever put on display. Neal had seen a photo of it: a blue heart-shaped diamond. Lovely color, almost 6 carats, it was the kind of stone that in another life he would have been very interested in for other reasons.

Taking out a cell phone from the bottom drawer of his desk, Neal placed a few more calls.

**Neal's loft. November 8, 2004. Monday evening.**

It was close to ten o'clock by the time Neal returned home from class. The seminar on Dutch Baroque Paintings was taught by his advisor, Ivan Sherkov. They were currently studying Rembrandt and the complexities of authentication. Rembrandt was notorious for being particularly challenging. Determining whether a painting was from the School of Rembrandt or from the artist himself was not an exact science. The number of accepted Rembrandts varied between over seven hundred to below three hundred depending on which expert was consulted. It was a topic close to Neal's heart. He was beginning to research topics for his master's thesis, and the chance to use his forgery skills for authentication made the subject especially attractive.

But in the meantime diamonds were more pressing.

As he walked up the stairs to the loft he could hear a spirited conversation going on. Neal grinned. Judging by the sounds of laughter, the game must be going well. When he walked in, June was arguing with Mozzie. They were sitting at the table with a board game spread out between them. A half-full bottle of red wine and two glasses were also on the table.

June looked up when he entered. "You're just in time, dear, to help us settle this. Mozzie is insisting that I cheated by using a red card to get out of Molasses Swamp, but he's sadly mistaken."

Neal took a seat at the table. "Is this true, Mozz?"

Mozzie had a passion for board games bordering on the obsessive, and had discovered a kindred soul in June. _Candy Land_ was their favorite. Monday evenings had been set aside for _Candy Land_ since Neal had a class then. His loft had once been a backroom speakeasy, and that it was now the _Candy Land_ den of iniquity was fitting.

"I believe that our gracious hostess is misinformed about the newly revised rules of 2003," Mozzie said. "I shall bring you a copy for our rematch."

"Better let me authenticate it," Neal whispered in an aside to June.

"I heard that," said Mozzie as he collected the board pieces and sorted the cards into the game box.

"I'll leave you two," June said, standing up. "It's getting to be my bedtime. Mozzie, regarding the wine you owe me, I'd prefer a Washington Fumé Blanc. Neal, be sure to have a glass of that Petit Syrah. My daughter had recommended it to me and it has an excellent bouquet."

June and Mozzie had developed an intricate betting system for _Candy Land_ , with the loser providing the wine for the next week's board game. The country of origin and type of wine was determined by the closeness of the victory, extra points being awarded for extremely subtle and/or devious moves.

"Delightful lady," Mozzie remarked as Neal helped himself to a glass. "I would have loved to have seen her run games with Byron. She must have been unstoppable."

"Sorry I'm late. The seminar went on longer than I expected," Neal said, swirling the glass.

When he'd first moved into the loft last winter, Mozzie had quickly achieved near roommate status. But a combination of classes and FBI ops had brought about a lessening of the visits, something Neal suspected Peter was relieved to see. Mozzie had adapted well to Neal's new hours, often coming over to visit June even when Neal wasn't at home.

"The crafty rabbit has three burrows," Mozzie pronounced as he put the game on a shelf. "Feng Xuan was an astute sage. To survive, everyone needs three escape routes. You, mon frère, are being wise to prepare your three rabbit holes. The FBI is one, Columbia provides another, and of course, you could easily return to your life as a master con artist at any time. This FBI life you have now with Peter, I know you like it now, and it's providing you valuable insights into how the enemy works, but you would be well-advised to not become too attached. Situations change. You may need to also someday."

Mozzie's advice was usually sound, if in need of translation. Mozzie was wrong this time, but no point in trying to convince him the FBI wasn't the enemy. Situations may change but Mozzie's feelings about the FBI were cast in concrete.

"Actually you could say I have four rabbit holes since I'm going for a dual master's in both Art History and Visual Arts," Neal pointed out.

"Very good, grasshopper. Now you're catching on."

"How about you? What are your three?"

"Oh, I have nine," he said airily, "plus four in reserve."

"You always were an overachiever." Neal took out a file from his briefcase. "This is all my research on the stolen earrings. Any chatter on the street about the theft?"

"Nothing yet." Mozzie quickly scanned the contents and closed the folder with a grimace. "An inferior job, poorly planned and lacking in finesse. This is exactly the type of crime that gives our profession a bad name."

"I agree. There was no need to kill the driver or the guard." In Mozzie's and what used to be his world, thieves could be divided into the gentlemen variety like Gordon Taylor and the vicious criminals like—

Interrupting his thoughts, Mozzie said, "The coldblooded brutality of it reminds me of a former associate of yours."

"Yeah, me too," Neal said, resting his chin on his hands. "Matthew Keller."

Mozzie nodded. "Do you know where he is now?"

"I checked around this afternoon. He was rumored to have been in Vienna last week. There are no recent reports for him in the States, but with Keller . . ."

"Keller is bad news. I wish you'd never gotten involved with him."

"You and me both." Neal stood and walked over to the patio doors. As he looked out at the city lights, he thought back about his time with Keller. He'd first hitched up with him in Amsterdam. There'd been some daredevil jobs and heart-stopping adventures, but it didn't take long for Keller to reveal his vicious core, so unlike the affable exterior he'd first presented to Neal. Keller worked primarily in Europe. Neal hoped he'd never have to deal with him again.

Turning back to Mozzie, he asked, "Any other people come to mind?"

Mozzie shook his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if it were someone from out of town. It has all the earmarks of a special commission. The earrings are too well-known to fence. Most likely a wealthy buyer, perhaps European. Someone with a Marie Antoinette fetish perhaps."

"If it is, they may hit Regnier's for the ring or intercept the ring if it hasn't arrived yet."

"I doubt it. The owner of the ring is known to only a few. It would be difficult to discover how or when the ring will be shipped. And as for hitting Regnier's . . ." Mozzie paused, looking wistful. "That store has a security system so complex that I sometimes wonder if a clone of me didn't design it. That's undoubtedly why the Smithsonian allowed the earrings to be exhibited there."

Neal sat down at the sofa. Fingering a chess piece on the side table next to him, he said, "I've arranged to meet André Renard tomorrow."

"André's in town? When did that happen?"

"He arrived in New York a couple of months ago. I've fenced with him a few times at my club."

"I'm surprised he left Geneva. He'd been there for years. That's where the two of you met, isn't it?"

"That's right. I did a job for Keller. André was in the crew. Keller introduced me as Gary Rydell.  I discovered André was an expert fencer. Compared to him, I was only a novice. I'm still not sure why he chose me as a fencing partner, but it was like having a grandmaster as my personal coach."

"And he never learned your real name?"

"He's always known me as Gary Rydell," Neal said. "I wish I could tell him I'm also fencing with the Columbia College Club, but that would burn the alias. André's been in the business so long, his contacts are invaluable, especially now." 

"I only know him by reputation. Someday you should introduce us. In the meantime, I'll continue to sniff around till I need to leave for Paris."

"Gordon Taylor?"

He nodded. "Gordon and Paris are beckoning once more." This was Mozzie's second time to have a job with Gordon Taylor this fall. Undoubtedly Gordon held several enticements for Mozzie. The major lure was to work with the preeminent gentleman thief of their time. But quite possibly another factor was that his work would be outside FBI jurisdiction. It meant less awkwardness for both him and Neal. And now that Mozzie had become friends with Elizabeth, Neal suspected he was even more inclined to stay off Peter's radar.

"When are you leaving?" Neal asked.

"Couple of weeks. Gordon is making the final details now. At Thanksgiving, very possibly I will be on the French Riviera while you're shivering in New York. Aren't you tempted?"

**Chelsea Fencing Club. November 9, 2004. Tuesday morning.**

"You've been practicing, mon ami." André removed his face mask and hung his épée on the rack. "Your _attaque composée_ has improved dramatically. You should take it easy. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"You're being too kind. I can tell when you're holding back." That sounded like Neal was being modest but he was only being truthful. André might have more gray in his hair, but his technique was still unparalleled. What he may have lost in speed—and Neal doubted he'd lost anything—he more than made up for in the complexity and skill of his attacks. "When you came to New York, it was the best thing that could happen to my game."

Neal took a seat in the small lounge next to the fencing area. The lounge was equipped with a few tables and chairs and beverage machines. It had been requested by the members as an area where they could take a break without putting away their equipment. At that hour Neal and André had the lounge to themselves.

"I'm glad to hear something good resulted from it," André replied wryly. "But aside from the distinct pleasure of reconnecting with you, my time here has not been very fruitful. Before I came, I'd been warned that I would find New York a difficult milieu, and, alas, I've found that to be correct. The NYPD is a challenging opponent, as you no doubt know, and then there is a branch of the FBI they call White Collar—a rather intriguing name by the way—I'm told their agents are extremely competent. Too competent. One needs to be very careful in this city. I'm considering returning to Europe."

It was gratifying to hear about White Collar's reputation. Not very helpful for the line of inquiry he was pursuing. But with the proper twist … "I know what you mean. Opportunities for smuggling are drying up because of all the scrutiny. Have you heard of anyone needing one?"

"No, but should anything arise, I'll be happy to contact you."

Neal got up and retrieved a couple of Perriers for them. "Did you hear that someone stole Marie Antoinette's earrings yesterday?"

" _Mon dieu, non_. This is news to me. The pair that's in the Smithsonian collection?"

"That's right. They were to be part of an exhibit on Marie Antoinette's jewelry called _The Queen's Jewels_ at Regnier's. They were taken from an armored truck here in Manhattan. Two people killed."

"That's unfortunate. It's a disservice to us all when someone steps over the line." André shook his head in disapproval. He was one of the old school. It would be difficult to find anyone more polite and courteous. André had never been very successful as a thief. Mozzie had speculated he was too soft-hearted, and he was probably right. Neal had a lot of sympathy for André.

"I wish I could be the fence for that job," Neal remarked. "I wouldn't have to work again for a long time."

"I'm afraid you won't have your wish," André said, taking a sip of Perrier. "I imagine that was a special commission, and I'm willing to wager by whom."

"Sounds like a client worth knowing. If this doesn't work out, perhaps I could supply him with another item. Would you mind telling me who you suspect?"

André leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "A few weeks ago I heard that a Russian was in town and was interested in acquiring jewelry owned by the French aristocracy. He was willing to pay handsomely."

"Do you have any idea who it was? It's possible he could benefit from my expertise in getting them out of the country."

"Perhaps. It may be worth your while to discuss it with him. His name is Yuri Bolotnov. He works for Rosgor and comes to New York regularly." André's expression grew somber. "I feel I must warn you to be cautious in how you approach him. I've heard rumors about Bolotnov. Some say he is very high up in the Russian Mafia, perhaps even one of their bosses. They could be wrong—I know for a fact Bolotnov prides himself on a squeaky clean reputation. But all may not be as it seems, mon ami."

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! If you'd like to see photos of the jewels, cast members and other visuals, visit The Queen's Jewels board at our Pinterest site at_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon/)  _where both Penna Nomen and I pin illustrations for our stories._

_In Chapter 2: En Garde, Neal and Peter are on the trail of the stolen earrings and Neal's life at Columbia is also explored. Columbia and Mozzie will play major roles in this tale where Neal will appreciate having all three of his rabbit holes._

_Thanks to Penna, creator of this AU, for acting as beta reader and awesome co-conspirator for this story. If you want to catch up, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation. My first tale, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur._

_Disclaimers:_ _White Collar and its characters are not mine._ _Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate._


	2. En Garde

**White Collar Division. November 8, 2004. Tuesday afternoon.**

The news about Yuri Bolotnov was a potential game changer in their efforts to recover the stolen earrings. Elated, Neal called Peter with a report as soon as he was outside the fencing club then headed for the Bureau. At the club he was known as Gary Rydell. His alias wasn't a suit and tie kind of guy. He debated briefly going back to his loft to change, but decided the Bureau could survive one day of Neal Caffrey in a sports shirt and leather jacket.

When Neal entered the White Collar bullpen, Peter motioned him upstairs. Diana and Jones were already sitting in the conference room.

"Good look for you, Caffrey," Diana commented as he strolled in. Trust Diana to notice. Peter and Jones, on the other hand, were cut from the same cloth. Jones probably asked Peter where he bought his suits so he could buy identical ones.

"Go ahead and explain to the others where you've been this morning," Peter requested.

"I was at the Chelsea Fencing Club, a hangout for Gary Rydell, ace fence and fencer. I'd arranged to meet a contact there. Through him I was able to get a lead not on the thief but who the buyer might be: Yuri Bolotnov. Bolotnov's a Russian national. Works for Rosgor, a Russian mining company. He'd put the word out he was interested in acquiring jewelry owned by the French aristocracy."

"How reliable is your contact?" Jones demanded. "Do you trust him?"

"He has no reason to mislead me on this," Neal assured him. He could understand Jones raising doubts. After all, Jones didn't know André. For that matter, as far as he knew no one at the FBI was aware of him, and Neal intended to keep it that way.

"When Neal called in, I did some preliminary research on Bolotnov." Peter paused and projected a photo on the wall monitor. It was the image of a middle-aged businessman, comfortably prosperous. His clothing was well-made but not ostentatious. Based strictly on his appearance, he could have been a banker or a diplomat. "Bolotnov makes regular trips to New York as trade liaison with the United States. His record is unblemished with not a hint of scandal."

"According to my source, Bolotnov is very careful to maintain that clean image," added Neal.

Agent Travis Miller walked into the conference room with a folder while Neal was talking. A little surprising to see him there. Travis preferred to hole up in the FBI lab and was much more comfortable surrounded by his electronics equipment than attending a meeting. Peter must have short-circuited one of his electronics to roust him out.

"I asked Travis to look into Bolotnov's background," Peter said.

"He's certainly wealthy enough to pay someone for the earrings," Travis said, taking a seat at the table. "He's amassed a sizeable fortune, the vast bulk of which is untraceable."

"The rumor is he may be high up in the Russian Mafia. That could explain his bank account," Neal added. "Are there any reports of Bolotnov being in town?"

Travis glanced at his notes. "He was here on business last month and flew back to Moscow on October 25. He's also listed on an Aeroflot flight due to arrive today at Kennedy Airport."

"Hard to believe that's just a coincidence," Diana said, raising a brow.

"Jones, you and Diana research the mafia connection and find out where he's staying," Peter ordered. "Travis, start preparations for round-the-clock surveillance. Once we've established a location for him, we might as well throw all our resources into it since this is the only lead we have. Neal, continue checking with your contacts. Make a list of any likely candidates for who may have carried out the job."

"If Bolotnov is in the market for jewels, Regnier's itself may be targeted," Diana said. "Shouldn't we also set up surveillance there?"

"Their security is already so state-of-the-art, frankly I don't think we could add much," said Jones. "I met with them this morning. Their surveillance cameras are strategically located to pick up anyone in the store or back rooms, and their vault is one of the most secure I've ever seen outside a bank. But I could ask them for copies of their videos. If there is any known criminal casing them out, we could ID them via facial recognition software."

Travis's face lit up at the mention of the software. "I'm working on an enhanced version of the program. It should markedly improve its accuracy. It's still a beta, but I could run the videos through it and compare the output."

"Do that," Peter said. "The program we're currently using isn't that reliable. This will make a good opportunity to test it."

When the meeting broke up, Peter pulled Neal aside. "Before you head downstairs, stop off at my office."

When Neal walked into Peter's office, Peter asked to close the door and motioned him to take a seat. Getting straight to the point, he said, "I didn't want to bring it up at the briefing, but is there anything we should know about your contact at the fencing club? Could he cause problems?"

Neal picked up one of the pens on Peter's desk and twirled it in his fingers. "No, this is someone I've known for years. He's a friend and reliable."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Do I have to worry about another Mozzie in your life?"

With a laugh, Neal shook his head. "Mozzie's one of a kind." Hesitating, he considered how much to reveal to Peter. He didn't want André to wind up in the database, but it was obvious Peter wasn't going to let up. "I met him in Geneva. He became my fencing partner—for swords, not stolen goods, that is. I trust him, and you can too."

"Do you and Mozzie have any thoughts about who the thief might be?" Peter persisted.

"There are a couple of people I know whose MO matches the robbery. I don't think they're in town, but I'm looking into it."

"Give me names, Neal."

"Matthew Keller, Ryan Wilkes," Neal said, studying Peter for his reaction.

"You referenced them several times in your confession to gain immunity," Peter said, his brow furrowing. "Keller in particular is well-known to us."

"Yeah, if either one is in town, it's bad news."

Peter made a note. "I'll have our people check for leads." Putting down his pen, he shot Neal a stern look. "You, be careful. If you hear anything, report back. Don't go it alone."

"Don't worry, Peter. I have no intention of taking on Keller by myself."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

By the end of the day, Neal hadn't been able to find any evidence of Keller or Wilkes being in New York. He didn't know if he should feel relieved or disappointed. Not that he was looking forward to a reunion with either one of them, but at least they were predictable.

At quitting time he headed straight for Columbia, planning to grab a sandwich on the way. On Tuesday evenings he didn't have any art history classes to attend so he could concentrate on his own art in his studio provided by Columbia. That studio in Watson Hall had become his second home.

Mozzie had reminded him the previous night that he needed multiple rabbit holes to his den. Neal  should have countered that he not only had multiple rabbit holes but also an extra den. Mozzie would have given him extra points. Granted, the studio might not come up to Mozzie's standards as a safe house, but as a retreat it was outstanding. On campus Neal could shapeshift into another person. There he was just another art student. A few knew he worked for the FBI, but almost no one was familiar with what he did, and nobody knew of his activities before the FBI. That separation was something Neal prized.

On Tuesday evenings critiques or impromptu workshops were scheduled with the art professors or visiting artists. Tonight Professor Myra Stockman was on the docket, a woman renowned for pulverizing students into quivering lumps of disintegrated flesh with her withering criticisms.

She was in exceptional form tonight, Neal thought with a grimace at the conclusion of a particularly intense session. Had Columbia given her tongue a license to kill? He was cleaning his brushes when Richard poked his head through the door. Richard was Neal's closest friend at Columbia and had the studio next to his. By day Richard worked as an investment analyst at a brokerage house. He kept a guitar in his studio, and his New Orleans heritage was evident in the blues he loved to play.

"You know anyone interested in junk metal?" Richard asked. "After Stockman's shellacking, I thought I might as well scrap the lot." He perched on a stool, looking more frustrated than Neal had ever seen him. "The woman simply doesn't relate to my esthetic at all. I suppose it's understandable. She's a painter, not a sculptor. How could she possibly comprehend what I'm trying to achieve?"

"You're lucky. I don't have that excuse," Neal said with a sigh. "She didn't like my paintings any better. I might as well toss a couple of them onto the trash heap right along with yours. I thought my latest effort would be more to her liking. Wrong." Neal contemplated the problem child gloomily. The painting, tentatively titled _Spheres_ , had been inspired by the Rose Center at the Museum of Natural History. Neal had gotten the idea last month when he visited the center with Peter.

Richard joined him in studying it. "Why didn't she like it?"

"She claimed it was unfocused and superficial. Her recommendation? I call it _Lost in Space._ "

"Good one, Myra!" Richard chuckled appreciatively.

"No fair piling on," Neal said with a groan. "She also recommended we set up group sessions without her so we could knock each other on the head and spare her the necessity. Perhaps she's experiencing remorse for all the gloom she's spreading."

"Not a bad idea. I know Keiko would like to join us. She stresses so much about the professors' criticisms, this could ease her nerves." Keiko was also a first year grad student. Her studio was down the hall from theirs.

"If we ask her, we'll have to include Aidan," Neal said, picking up a cloth to dry his brushes. "Those two are becoming inseparable. He told me he's applied to move his studio from Prentis Hall to Watson, and I don't think it's because he wants to be closer to us."

"I can see it now. He'll move in, and when he's not cozying up to Keiko, you and he will be fencing up and down the corridors. Good—Watson needs a couple of swashbucklers."

Aidan was Neal's fencing partner at Columbia and had been the one who'd coerced Neal into joining the club team. "And there could be another benefit. If Stockman saw us fence, she might treat our sensibilities with more care."

Richard picked up Neal's guitar which was propped up in a corner, and strummed a few chords. "Will we still have use of the practice studio for the band if Aidan moves out of Prentis?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. Aidan has room privileges since he's taking a course in computer music."

"We still on for Sunday night?"

"Keiko can't make it but I'll be there. Fiona has some new music she wants to try out. We're getting together Saturday evening to practice. She's selected a few pieces by Loreena McKinnett and Blackmore's Night that she'd like to turn into duets for Thanksgiving."

"You two are seeing a lot of each other these days."

Neal deflected with a shrug. "We're just friends. This band she started has thrown us togeth—"

"Yeah, right," Richard said, looking skeptical. "I only wish she had a brother she could introduce me to."

"Love life not going so well? I thought you and Paul—"

"No, closed that chapter. Movin' on."

Richard started playing a tune Neal wasn't familiar with. It sounded vaguely Celtic with jazz overtones or maybe Scandinavian. "What's that you're playing?"

"It's a new tune by Jonae. Keiko and I are working up a version for Thanksgiving. Care to join in?"

**Neal's Loft. November 9, 2004. Wednesday morning.**

Wednesday morning, Neal was still getting dressed when Peter called.

"It's only seven o'clock," Neal said, looking at his watch. "You're starting early. Got a hot news flash?"

"You might call it that," said Peter. "We traced Bolotnov to the Ramsey Hotel."

"The one on East 64th Street?"

"That's right. Bolotnov's booked a room through Thursday. His return flight to Moscow leaves Friday afternoon. That gives us a defined window to work with. Travis prepared a surveillance schedule yesterday. We're running it out of a hotel room in the Wilson Hotel across the street. The room's booked in the name of Carlton Leed. Your shift starts at 9 a.m. so you might as well report directly there."

"Peter, you're saving me a trip down to Lower Manhattan. Thank you." That was a gift. Neal was behind on his art history reading. He could use the extra time at home.

"Something else you should know. We checked around about Wilkes and Keller. Couldn't find any evidence that they're in town. Don't know if you consider that good news?"

"I don't either. Much as I'd just as soon never see them again, I would have liked to have put a face to the perp."

**Wilson Hotel. November 9, 2004. Wednesday morning.**

Diana opened the door to Neal's knock. Travis was adjusting his monitoring equipment on a large table which had been positioned in the center of the room. The small hotel room bristled with electronic surveillance equipment.

"Impressive," said Neal as he looked around. "All the amenities of home plus enough electronics to make the CIA jealous. This setup makes the van obsolete."

"I wish," said Diana. "What I appreciate the most is space to change clothes. No, wait, better than that—a real bathroom with working plumbing. It’s even clean. There are spare messenger outfits in the closet and a bicycle is available for our use downstairs."

Neal walked over to the window and looked across the street at the hotel. "Not that I'm complaining, but can you get adequate coverage of people on the street from up here?"

"You can with these babies," Travis explained, patting one of the monitors. "We've set up cams in the lobby of the Ramsey Hotel and just outside the entrance. Each one feeds into one of these monitors. The feed is simultaneously fed through both the standard facial recognition software and my beta program."

"So you're telling me, all that's left for me to do is go on a coffee run."

"No need," said Diana smugly. "We have our own coffee maker and kitchenette. I may just live here for the duration."

Neal made himself comfortable in front of one of the monitors. "Has there been any sign of Bolotnov?" he asked.

"Not yet," replied Travis. "They're tracing his schedule at the Bureau."

It was a slow morning at the hotel. Not unexpected. The Ramsey Hotel catered to primarily a business crowd. It had few amenities for tourists. Most of its guests had departed in the morning and it was too early for new arrivals. Bolotnov was probably sleeping off jet lag. To pass the time, Neal kept up a running stream of chatter with Diana and Travis. "You going anywhere for Thanksgiving?" he asked Diana.

"Not me. I've no desire to get caught up in holiday traffic. In any case, my dad's not in the States right now. He's currently stationed in the Philippines, not exactly a suitable location for a long weekend."

"So you're making Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Who are you kidding? I'll probably load up on Chinese takeout the night before."

"How about you, Travis? Any plans?"

"Not yet. The FBI LGBT group has a Thanksgiving bash planned. I may attend."

"I'd reconsider if I were you," said Diana. "According to the scuttlebutt, Leslie in accounting insists on making the turkey and trust me, she should have her license to cook taken away. I attended a party she threw over Labor Day. My stomach still rolls when I think about it."

"You two should join me at Columbia," Neal offered. "A group of us reserved the party space in Lerner Hall—that's the student center. It comes with a fully equipped kitchen we can use. I'm cooking the turkey, and I promise you, it will be better than the hapless Leslie's. My wild mushroom stuffing is justly famous. Dates are welcome. Is Christie free, Diana?"

"We're not dating, Neal, we're just—"

Interrupting her, Neal sweetened the offer with an extra lure. "I already asked Jones. He's bringing Helen."

"He is?" Diana asked, suddenly appearing much more intrigued. "Is this the rumored friend in the D.A.'s office?"

"The one and only. Travis and I saw them together a couple of weeks ago when we were walking back to the Bureau."

"Jones never likes to talk about who he's dating. It's worth coming to your event just for that," said Diana.

"Curious you should say that. You're not that different, you know."

"Maybe," she said with a sly grin. "Will your group perform? I keep hearing what a good musician you are but I've never heard you."

"That's the plan, if the football contingent allows us."

A knock on the door interrupted their discussion. Rising to answer it, Neal found Peter at the door.

Peter looked around the room and nodded his approval. "Not bad."

Walking back to his station, Neal said, "Not bad? Diana's ready to sign up for round-the-clock shifts."

"Any sign of Bolotnov?"

"It's all quiet so far," Diana replied. "Did you have any luck with his appointment schedule?"

"We've been able to trace several meetings with U.S. mining representatives. But he still has plenty of time for other activities. That mafia connection Neal's contact mentioned is intriguing. The CIA has no information about it and was very curious to learn more. Neal, any chance your contact would be willing to share more details?"

"I can try."

"Even simply finding out how he heard about it would be a help."

Travis had been typing at his keyboard, eyes glued to his monitor, while Peter and Neal talked. Without looking around, he called out. "Guys, I think I have something."

Neal and the others jerked their heads around in unison. "What?"

"My beta software registered a possible match which I identified through secondary processing. Filtering it through Turing branching enabled—"

"Let's cut to the chase and give us a name, okay?" interrupted Peter.

"Luigi Tramonte!" Travis said jubilantly. "Entered the hotel about 10 minutes ago at 10:47 a.m. Last seen heading for the elevators. So far hasn't exited the hotel."

Neal spun around to his laptop to pull up information about Tramonte as Diana did the same. "Known member of the Sicilian Mafia," he reported.

"Age 42, arrived in New York three weeks ago," added Diana.

"What does he look like?" asked Peter.

"See for yourself," said Neal, bringing up a photo on his computer. Tramonte was clean-shaven, slim, his dark hair greased back. Comparing it with the image on the web cam, the two appeared to be the same individual.

Diana was already on the phone to agents stationed in the hotel lobby. "He'll be followed when he leaves," she relayed.

"Neal, if you were Tramonte and had stolen the earrings, how would you have handled it?" Peter asked.

"I'd want to get rid of the earrings as quickly as possible and get my money. It's very likely that Tramonte would have had them with him this morning, and when he leaves, the money will have been deposited into his account. I seriously doubt he'll have any evidence on him when he leaves."

"Get in touch with your contact when your shift is over. I'm going back to the Bureau now. If you need to reach me this afternoon, I'll be working from home, waiting on the plumber. Our water heater sprang a leak, and El is working at a reception."

Turning to Travis, he said, "Your software passed its first road test with flying colors—good work, Travis. Keep monitoring, everyone."

**Chelsea Fencing Club. November 10, 2004. Wednesday afternoon.**

"To be successful with the feint, the fencer must lie to the opponent, disguising his own intentions and laying false perceptions," André said. "Your feints are surpassing mine now in their sophistication, _mon ami_. The student is now the master."

Neal had met André at the club that afternoon and after an intensive workout with sabres, they were relaxing in the club bar, the Golden Harrow. Neal would face an especially formidable opponent on sabre at the match with Harvard and had taken advantage of meeting with André for another practice session.

One of the reasons Neal had picked the Chelsea Fencing Club as Gary's hangout was the inviting bar it had with sweeping views of the Hudson River. The walls were covered with fencing memorabilia, photos, and posters. Members were allowed to keep liquor lockers, but full service and snacks were also available. The Golden Harrow was open to the general public and had become a favorite watering hole for young executives. Its popularity helped subsidize club expenses. Recently it had added an espresso machine and was now open throughout the day.

"Hardly, André! But I'm glad to hear I can give you a better workout now." Neal retrieved a bottle of Bordeaux from his locker. "The art of the feint is what fascinates me the most about fencing. A well-executed feint is an expert con—an illusion, careful misinformation, a judicious misleading of intent."

"Or you could say an expert con is simply an embodiment of the well-executed feint," André riposted.

Filling their glasses, Neal gave an appreciative nod. _"Santé!"_

"May I ask if you approached Bolotnov?" André asked.

"I'm planning to. He's returned to New York. I've also heard rumors that Luigi Tramonte may have been behind the robbery."

"Indeed? Well, that answers one question. And unfortunately it comes as no surprise."

"I'm not following you. What's going on, André?"

"A couple of weeks ago Tramonte approached me about a possible job. During our discussion, he happened to mention Bolotnov and his interest in the French nobility, but it wasn't in connection to the job. More of an off-hand remark he made."

"Why did you turn him down? You said jobs were hard to come by."

"Tramonte is not a person I care to do business with. I would advise you to also stay clear of him."

"Why? What do you know about him?" Neal persisted.

"I worked with him many years ago in Geneva. This was before you and I met. Back then he was a fresh-faced aspiring thief, eager to learn, very polite. I didn't know he had ties to the mafia. I thought he simply wanted to learn and assist. He'd come highly recommended. We ran several jobs together and all was going well." André's face darkened. "But later I discovered there was a violent, cruel side to his character. There was one job in particular. We were working with a woman. She made a mistake on the handover, and we lost some money. Not a large sum. It was insignificant to me. But I discovered later Tramonte had beaten her viciously because of it. I haven't worked with him in quite a while but I've heard through mutual acquaintances that he's been involved with many armed robberies and murders. There is a blackness to his soul. I hope you never have to deal with him."

"But if he asked you to join his crew, you must still be on good terms with him."

"I believe in never burning my bridges. Besides I don't wish to have him as my enemy. He still remembers me with fondness from our days together in Geneva. I wish I could say the same about him."

When Neal left the fencing club, he called Peter during his walk back to the subway. "Your house flooded yet?"

"Still waiting on the plumber. Have you met with your contact?"

Neal filled him in on what André told him. "Tramonte fits the profile, Peter. He knew about Bolotnov. Can we at least pick him up for questioning?"

"We don't have enough evidence to charge him with anything. This is all hearsay, Neal. I don't imagine your source is willing to make a statement. Tramonte was tracked to a hotel in Little Italy this afternoon. We'll keep him under surveillance, but based on what you said, he's most likely already transferred the earrings to Bolotnov, in which case there's very little we'll be able to do. All we have so far is a rumor that Bolotnov was in the market for French aristocratic jewels and the fact that Tramonte visited his hotel. Unless we get a break, we have nothing to tie Tramonte to the robbery except speculation. The evidence is not strong enough to obtain a search warrant."

"This is where FBI work is so frustrating to me," Neal said as he waited for the light at the intersection of Ninth and Twenty-third Street. "It would be _so_ easy for me to do a quick search of Bolotnov's hotel room while he's away at a business meeting. Then we'd at least know if he's our guy."

"Great idea! While you're at it you could use those ace safecracking skills you refined in Geneva which are now sadly growing rusty from disuse. Then I'd have the fun of explaining to your relatives why you had to be arrested."

"But, Peter—"

"No buts allowed. We'll have to find another way."

"Will this pass the FBI's smell test? Bolotnov's scheduled to leave the country on Friday. Is there anything illegal in providing extra assistance to the airport security officials in checking out his belongings?"

"Now that sounds more promising." Neal could hear the smile breaking out in Peter's voice. "No harm in helping out our overworked baggage inspectors."

"You could say it's our civic duty," Neal agreed readily.

 

* * *

_Notes: You may be thinking to yourselves that so far Neal is having remarkably smooth sailing. Of course, that can't last. Turbulent waters are just up ahead in Chapter 3: A Trap is Sprung._

_In this story where fencing is a key element, you'll find many references to The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. Some of the chapter titles and names, such as The Golden Harrow, are also pulled from that book._

_Thanks to Penna Nomen for helping me navigate the often treacherous waters of storytelling and you for reading!_


	3. A Trap Is Sprung

**John F. Kennedy Airport. November 12, 2004. Friday morning.**

"Sir, we need to inspect your briefcase. If you'd come this way please . . ."

"Yes, of course," Bolotnov said obligingly. "Happy to comply."

Jones, clad in the uniform of a TSA baggage inspector, led Yuri Bolotnov to a small room next to the passenger screening area. Neal accompanied him, also wearing an inspector uniform. Jones opened the briefcase which appeared to contain only papers. Raising an eyebrow, he looked over at Neal. The X-ray scanner had revealed nothing. Bolotnov's luggage had been thoroughly inspected with negative results. This was their last chance.

"The briefcase contains papers for me to work on during the flight. You'd be doing me a great service by confiscating them so I can sleep instead," Bolotnov joked while he observed the proceedings, ever the self-confident businessman tolerant of security red tape.

Neal, running his fingers lightly around the edges of the lining of the hard leather case, smiled at him sympathetically. "A mere formality," he assured Bolotnov as his fingers delicately probed a minute indentation along the side. Bending down to look closer he pressed harder and with a quiet snap the top lining dropped down to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside the compartment was a midnight- blue velvet pouch. As Jones kept guard over Bolotnov, Neal pulled out a pair of magnificent diamond earrings. The brilliant pear-shaped diamonds were dazzling against the dark velvet of the pouch.

With a nod to Jones, Neal quizzed Bolotnov, "More paperwork for the trip home?"

**White Collar Division, Federal Building. November 12, 2004. Friday afternoon.**

Yuri Bolotnov had been detained on possession of stolen property and brought to the Bureau for questioning. Peter was performing the interrogation while Neal and Jones observed from behind the one-way glass wall.

"I'll have to award him points for his 'Mr. Innocent' act," Jones said. "The sorrowful eyes, the downcast demeanor, the trembling lip, he's good all right."

"Willing to make a bet on whether that receipt he coughed up can be traced to an actual person?" asked Neal.

"Maybe a person who has conveniently disappeared. However, as long as Bolotnov continues to claim that he'd hidden the earrings to protect them from being stolen and had no idea that they were stolen property, there's no case. On the plus side, we've recovered the earrings, but as of now we have no evidence of him having knowingly purchased stolen property. If we brought him up on charges, we'd be laughed out of court."

"So even though his claim to have purchased them from a Russian immigrant who'd fallen on hard times will most likely never be substantiated, that doesn't help us."

"Right. Bolotnov's not resisting our confiscation of the earrings. He'll leave somewhat poorer, but judging from the financial statement I saw about his wealth, the money he spent on the earrings won't even register."

"Tramonte's the real winner. He wasn't charged with any crime and walked away with the money." Hardly a satisfying conclusion. It seemed lately that all of his cases were winding up this way. A couple of weeks ago they'd been able to recover a stolen manuscript by Galileo, but the presumed thief, the cybercriminal nicknamed Azathoth, had escaped capture. Efforts to track him down were continuing and Peter kept telling him to be patient, but that wasn't the way Neal liked to operate. It was messy and unsatisfying.

Jones, on the other hand, didn't appear to be bothered. "At least we know about Tramonte now, and he'll be on our watch list. In the meantime we've made the Smithsonian and Regnier's very happy. That counts for a lot. Plus, with the case wrapped up, we now have a free weekend." Jones looked distinctly pleased at the prospect.

"You sound like a man with plans."

"Not denying it."

"Do those plans involve Helen?" Neal asked.

"They just might," Jones acknowledged, looking even more cheerful. "What's your weekend looking like?"

"Fiona's invited me to her place for dinner on Saturday.'' Responding to Jones's grin, he added, "It's more a study date. We're going over music for the band rehearsal on Sunday and she offered her place."

"So that's the euphemism they're using now."

"Hey, we're just friends."

"Sure, Caffrey. Whatever you say."

**Prentis Hall, Columbia University. November 14, 2004. Sunday evening.**

"About last night . . ." Neal had taken advantage of Aidan fiddling with his synthesizer for "The Mummers' Dance" to pull Fiona aside. The practice session had already been going on for thirty minutes, but this had been their first chance to talk. "Thanks again for dinner. I'd no idea you were such a gourmet chef."

"I'm glad you liked it," Fiona said, looking pleased. "After the brunch you took me to at La Palette's, I was nervous what to make. That Irish stew recipe was from my grandmother. It seemed appropriate. That was a lovely wine you brought. And afterwards, having the time to run through all those duets was fantastic. We should do it more."

"I agree. Next time—my place."

"Hey, Fiona." Aidan called out. "I think I may have figured out how to imitate the sound of a hurdy-gurdy on the synth. What do you think?"

"Sounds more like cats-in-the-blender than a hurdy-gurdy to me," Richard offered helpfully. "Can you tone down the bagpipe effect or at least get rid of the buzzing?"

Aidan glared at Richard, frustrated. "But that's what makes it sound like a hurdy-gurdy. Otherwise, it's just electronic noise. Fiona, help!"

"You're needed elsewhere. We'll talk later," Neal said. "Richard and I should practice 'Bound for Botany Bay' anyway."

Neal joined Richard in a far corner, who had put as much distance as he could from Aidan's hurdy-gurdy-like screeches. "When did you wreck your thumb?" Richard asked with a nod to Neal's bandaged right thumb.

"Battle scar from fencing practice Friday night."

"I thought you guys wore protective gear."

"We do. We have a new member and he was horsing around before we started fencing. Guess he wanted to practice his Errol Flynn moves. Let's just say he needs a lot more work."

"Are you going to be able to play guitar?"

"Yeah, this isn't much more than a paper cut, but our coach didn't want to take any chances."

Richard and Neal only had time to rehearse the song's opening before being called on to join the others for a run-through. Aidan had been able to tame his hurdy-gurdy sound enough that this adaptation of "The Mummers' Dance" by Loreena McKinnett was coming together well and it certainly had the ethnic feel Fiona was going for. When she'd first mentioned putting together a band, now officially called Torann, Neal didn't think she'd ever get it off the ground. But now they had six members. Well, five and a half. Michael on tambourine hardly counted. Michael was studying art history along with Fiona and Neal. He'd never played an instrument before, but he was now their most enthusiastic member. Keiko had only played classical violin before she joined them, but had flung herself into mastering Celtic bowing techniques with fierce tenacity. Fiona wanted to bring the sounds of folk instruments into the music and they were faking it as much as possible with Aidan on synthesizer.

When Neal and Fiona had started seeing each other a month ago, Fiona had made it very clear she wasn't interested in any commitment. She was fresh from a messy break-up with an ex-boyfriend and didn't feel ready for anything serious. And Neal? He finally was over Kate. But then, in a spectacular display of bad timing, he focused on Sara just when she decided to move off to London and enter a relationship with Bryan McKenzie. Good old Sighin' Bryan. After two misfires, Neal didn't feel emotionally ready to become entangled with someone else either. Having Fiona to hang out with and go to concerts together appeared to be the perfect solution. No commitments. But after last night, that might not be so easy.

"We'll have to perform that at Thanksgiving," Michael said. "That will be our first performance in front of an audience. Should we schedule extra practice sessions?"

"Now don't start stressing on us," said Fiona. "If you get nervous, you may ruin your tambourine technique."

"What technique is she talking about?" Richard muttered with a grin to Neal.

"Do we have a head count of how many people are showing up?" Fiona asked.

"Eighteen last time I checked," said Neal.

"I'm glad you could convince your FBI friends to join us. They'll be objective listeners," said Fiona. "I think I'll pass out cards for them to make comments on how we played." Reacting to the chorus of groans, she added, "Better to know now than to hear the boos at Carnegie Hall."

**White Collar Division. November 15, 2004. Monday morning.**

It'd been a great weekend. The case of the stolen Marie Antoinette earrings had been solved. He'd been able to make significant progress on one of his paintings—Stockman herself might even like it. Saturday night was amazing . . . Neal was humming when he arrived at the Federal Building on Monday morning. It was the tune to "25 Years," one of the pieces he and Fiona had sung on Saturday. Very catchy. He'd been humming it ever since waking up.

But the hum died in his throat when he entered the bullpen.

On a typical Monday morning the bullpen would be bustling with agents typing on keyboards and conferring on projects. The break room would be alive with conversation, as agents chatted about their weekends while getting coffee. But not today. No conversations. No laughter. It was like a tomb with an overhanging shroud of tension reflected in the somber expressions of the agents.

Neal looked around for Peter and saw he was already behind closed doors with Hughes. Walking up to Jones, he asked in a low undertone, "What's going on? Did someone die?"

"I just got here myself and asked the same question of Travis," Jones replied equally quietly. "He said that the earrings have disappeared from the vault. He'd gone to retrieve them in order to photograph them before they were returned to the Smithsonian, and the vault guard told him. The evidence vault is on lockdown."

This was a shock. Neal had visited the vault often and was quite familiar with its security. Round-the-clock guards provided the first line of defense, but there was also a maze of cameras that any would-be thief would have to elude. Any especially valuable items such as the earrings were placed in a safe containing a sophisticated lock of bank-level complexity. It was difficult to imagine how anyone would have been able to accomplish a robbery without inside knowledge.

A short time later Peter called the team together for a briefing. "The theft was discovered during a routine check at six o'clock this morning. The earrings had been registered and placed in the vault on Friday afternoon, and that's the last time anyone saw them."

"What happens now?" Diana asked.

"OPR has been called in to conduct the investigation," Peter said. "We'll continue with business as usual. But you can expect to be interviewed at some point. When something like this occurs, a cloud is placed over all of us until it's cleared."

As the agents filed out of the conference room, Peter pulled Neal aside, saying, "Let's talk in my office."

Neal followed him into his office and closed the door behind him. Careful not to put his nerves on display, Neal waited for Peter to start. Peter's serious expression wasn't helping his mood.

Gesturing for him to take a seat, Peter said bluntly, "I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. There's no reason for you to be overly concerned. You're no more a target than any of the rest of us."

"That's good of you to say," Neal said quietly. "But the others don't have my past. In the ideal world, that shouldn't be a factor, but we both know that's not the case. I'm sure I'm at the top of their list. Maybe I am the list?"

Peter wasn't buying it. Shaking his head, he said, "Don't psych yourself out over this. I won't let you be made into a scapegoat."

"Thanks." He wasn't about to argue with Peter, not now. "Do you know who's leading the OPR investigation?"

"Garrett Fowler. He's been with the Bureau for about fifteen years. I don't know him well, but he has a reputation for being tough but fair. When you're questioned, be straightforward and honest. You'll be fine."

"Right." Neal appreciated Peter's words, but he couldn't help but feel he would be singled out. And with OPR running the show, there wouldn't be much Peter could do about it.

"You know the vault," Peter asked. "Any ideas about how a thief could have broken in?"

"The cameras would be extremely difficult to elude unless they were tampered with. That's always a possibility. They may not find any camera evidence. The lock on the safe is tough. I don't know of any agents who have the ability to crack it, but you have to believe it's an inside job, since the recovery of the earrings hasn't been reported in any of the papers."

"Not necessarily," Peter countered. "Remember Bolotnov knows about it. He may have used his mafia connections to steal it back."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Fowler arrived at White Collar midday. He was about Peter's age and height with sandy red hair. He was pleasant enough during Neal's interview. Asked him to relate how Jones and he had secured the earrings, wrote down where he'd gone over the weekend. All seemed very routine. He didn't mention Neal's past. Breathing a sigh of relief when it was over, Neal reminded himself what Peter had said. No reason for concern.

The only thing to focus on was what had happened to the earrings. Peter's idea about Bolotnov being involved made sense. But Bolotnov had gone back to Moscow on Sunday. Unless forensic evidence was discovered, tracing what had happened could be near impossible.

Midafternoon, Neal took a break and made a coffee run to a nearby coffeehouse. He took advantage of being out of the office to call Mozzie on a burner phone.

Mozzie's reaction to the news was prompt. "I can have everything ready in two hours. Remember, I still have the fake passport Adler made for you. Any destination in mind or should I pick? I can have the tickets in fifteen minutes."

"I didn't do it. I'm not running."

"You know you'll be considered the prime suspect. It's time to use one of those other rabbit holes."

"I'm hanging tight and waiting to see what OPR comes up with."

Mozzie was silent. Plainly he disapproved. "So you're just going to sit there and do nothing?" he finally asked.

"No, I'll help solve the case. Peter has my back. I trust him."

"He's not in charge," Mozz cautioned. "You're now being pursued by a pack of wolves in suits who've picked up your scent. You better start planning your escape routes."

**White Collar Division. November 16, 2004. Tuesday morning.**

Tuesday morning Peter was scheduled to give testimony on the Philip Townsend embezzlement case. He headed directly to the US Courthouse on Pearl Street. The proceedings were late to get started and afterwards moved at a snail's pace. During a break he checked in with Jones who reported there were a lot of meetings taking place, but he didn't have any news on the status of the investigation.

It was 12:30 by the time Peter's testimony had wrapped up and he was able to return to work.

When he exited the elevator, Diana saw him in the hallway and pulled him aside. "Peter, you need to find out what's going on. Fowler pulled Neal in for questioning at nine and hasn't released him yet. Fowler's speaking with Hughes now. I went to check on Neal and there was an armed guard at the door. He wouldn't let me in. Something's not right."

What the hell had happened? He hadn't been gone that long. Thanking Diana for the heads up, Peter jogged upstairs where he could see Hughes in his office with Fowler. They appeared to be having a heated discussion. Hughes noticed Peter through the glass wall and gestured for him to join them.

"Take a seat, Peter," Hughes said. "I'm sorry you weren't here in the morning so we could have brought you in at an earlier stage. Evidence has come to light on who may have stolen the earrings."

"Looks like your boy Caffrey has gone back to his old ways," Fowler added. "Luckily he's not as bright as he's led people to believe."

"Neal didn't steal those earrings," Peter rebuffed. "He—"

Holding up his hand, Hughes interjected, "Peter, before you say anything more, you should hear the evidence. Go ahead, Fowler, tell him what you unearthed."

"In Caffrey's account of events, the last time he'd handled the earrings was at the airport. Agent Clinton Jones had secured them into evidence at that time, and when they returned to the Bureau, Jones had taken them to the Evidence Control Unit where a guard had taken custody of them. During our investigation, Caffrey's fingerprints were found inside the metal evidence box where the earrings had been stored. And if that's not proof enough, we also found a couple of hairs which match his."

"Fingerprints can be planted," Peter scoffed. "Anyone could have taken a few hairs from the fedora he often leaves on his desk. Is that all you have? What do the surveillance cameras reveal?"

"There's a missing section in the record," Hughes said. "The period from 10 p.m. to midnight on Saturday night has been deleted. The lab is trying to recover the missing data."

Fowler shook his head impatiently and jabbed his finger at Peter. "It was obvious from the beginning who did it. The lock on the safe is too sophisticated for anyone but an expert to crack. We all know there's only one person capable of pulling it off and that's Caffrey." Adopting a more conciliatory tone, he added, "Look, Burke, you tried and it was a noble experiment but Caffrey's a criminal. That's who he is. You've forgotten that. Many of us knew from the beginning this experiment of yours wouldn't work. If you hold your hand out to a tiger, it's gonna get bitten off."

"Now wait a minute," Hughes said. "Caffrey's been a real asset to White Collar and I won't have him indicted without a fair hearing. But I agree there may be sufficient evidence for him to be suspended until this is cleared up."

"He can't be merely suspended," Fowler protested hotly. "He's a flight risk. You let him go and he'll disappear and take the earrings with him. He has to be locked up."

"That's ridiculous on this flimsy evidence. Did you give him a polygraph test?" Peter demanded.

"Yes, they did," Hughes replied. "And he passed."

"Yeah, but I bet he knows how to rig the test," Fowler countered. "And don't forget, his alibi is full of holes. He claims he was out on Saturday night but has no witnesses."

"Was his apartment searched?" Peter asked.

"Yes," answered Fowler, "and nothing was found. But again that proves nothing. No telling where he hid the earrings."

"Make sure Peter has a copy of the fingerprint and DNA evidence," Hughes said. "We're not taking any decision on Caffrey till this afternoon."

"I haven't even had a chance to speak with him yet," Peter said, frustrated. "Before we go any further I want to hear what he has to say."

Hughes nodded. "Fowler, go ahead and give your guard the order to allow it."

Waiting till Fowler had closed the door behind him, Hughes said, "Peter, you need to be careful with Fowler. Don't provoke him. You know as well as I do that OPR has jurisdiction over us in a case like this. I understand you feel responsible for Caffrey, but don't let him ruin your career. If you antagonize Fowler, he could cause trouble down the line not only for you but for the entire task force."

"There's no way Neal did this. You know that."

"I want to believe that, but I'm forcing myself to be as objective as possible. Get him to explain where he was Saturday night and that will be a start. But you have to understand, because of his past Caffrey already has two strikes against him."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

As Peter went downstairs, he pondered Hughes's words. He knew Hughes was right to warn him about Fowler. Brawling with him, as satisfying as that might be, would only make it more difficult for Neal. Stopping off in the break room, Peter picked up two cups of coffee and headed for the holding area. Fowler must have spoken with the guard because when the guard saw Peter approach, he opened the door to let him in.

The room where Neal was being held was one of the interrogation rooms. Small and windowless, it was sparsely furnished with a table and a few chairs. Neal scanned his face intently when he entered. "I didn't steal those earrings, Peter. I didn't let you down."

"You don't need to tell me that. I never thought for a moment that you would have stolen them." Peter sat down across from him, dismayed by his words. "Didn't they tell you where I was? I only found out when I got back from court or I would have come earlier."

A little of the tenseness left Neal's face as he shrugged. "They weren't very forthcoming. I was starting to wonder."

"They treating you okay otherwise?"

"Yeah." Neal managed a faint smile. "No clubs or brass knuckles."

"That's good. I'll leave my own baseball bat in the closet for the moment." He slid the coffee over and when Neal picked it up, noticed he had a bandage on his thumb. Peter hadn't remembered seeing it the previous day. "Did our guys do this to you?"

"What?" Neal looked at Peter in confusion and Peter nodded to his thumb. "Oh, this? I'd forgotten about it. Accident during fencing practice. It's nothing."

"I hear you took a polygraph test."

"Yeah, I was the one who offered. Didn't seem to do much good. What's next? Locking me up?"

Much as Peter wanted to reassure Neal, he couldn't. The threat hanging over him was too real to be dispersed by platitudes. "I'm doing my best to prevent that from happening. You know about the evidence?"

"The fingerprints, the hair. Peter, surely you don't think I'd be such an idiot." Neal winced in frustration. "If I pulled off a job like this, no way would I have left evidence like that behind."

"I know. Insulting, isn't it?"

"You got that straight," said Neal with a somewhat larger smile.

"Mind telling me where you were Saturday night? If we could verify your alibi for that period, it'd be a helluva lot easier clearing you."

"I said that I was out on Saturday night and I was."

"Can anyone corroborate that?"

Neal didn't answer but crossed his arms on the table and leaned onto them, looking prepared to dig in his heels. As if being stubborn was going to help his case . . .. Resisting the urge to reach over and shake it out of him, Peter attempted reasoning first. "Someone must have seen you. Give me something to work with here."

Neal softened his stance enough to say, "Look, I was with someone and I don't want her dragged into this." With a small huff, he sat back in his chair as if that explained everything.

Peter considered this morsel of news. He'd thought Neal was probably shielding Mozzie. Since when had he started dating again? The last he'd heard, Neal was still in the dumps over Sara. "You gotta tell me who she was."

Neal shook his head. "Peter, I can't. I don't want her knowing about this."

"Would you rather she find out by seeing your mug shot in all the papers? 'Cause if you don't tell me now, I can guarantee she'll find out later and it'll be much crueler then."

Neal rested his chin on his propped up arm and looked over at the wall. "I was with Fiona," he admitted finally. "At her place till around 2 a.m. then went straight home."

Peter exhaled slowly. "All right. I can work with that. Knowing there's a corroborating witness may be enough to satisfy them for now. New evidence could come to light and she won't need to be interviewed."

Neal appeared unconvinced. "They've already decided I'm guilty. There's no point in getting her involved." He added bitterly, "They'll simply believe I convinced her to lie to protect myself."

"Hey, you're not giving up on me already, are you?" Peter said with a fake enthusiasm he sure as hell wasn't feeling. "You're just tired and hungry. I don't expect they brought you lunch, did they?" At Neal's headshake, he added, "I'll make sure they do. Anything else you need?"

"How about some paper and pencils or pens? They probably won't agree to a computer, but I don't have anything to do. I'm slowly going nuts."

"Yeah, I can relate to that. I'll bring you some supplies and get back to you as soon as I can with news."

Once he got back in his office, Peter considered his next steps. Neal was right. The alibi Fiona provided wasn't enough assurance by itself to clear him. But possibly it would be enough to keep him from being charged. What would be the hardest to fight was the assumption of guilt that Fowler had made. And he most likely wasn't the only one who had already convicted Neal. From the beginning there'd been voices of dissent over the immunity deal they'd made with him. When Hughes had agreed to the proposal, he'd warned Peter in no uncertain terms about the consequences if Neal strayed. Peter could still hear his words:  _Any sign that he continues to engage in criminal activities, and we’ll throw his ass in jail_. 

Aggravating matters was the lingering resentment harbored by some over Hitchum, the agent who'd been a mole for Adler and bribed by Neal's uncle to discredit him. Hitchum had many friends in the Bureau, and inevitably there were still agents who pinned the blame for Hitchum's downfall on Neal. Unless the real thief could be arrested, Neal's days with the FBI would likely be over.

 

* * *

_Notes: Yes, as you've probably guessed by now, this is my homage to the classic canon episode "Free Fall" and how an attempt to frame Neal might play out in our 'verse. Since I'm posting it in the spring, expect to find an abundance of Easter eggs not only for canon episodes but also for stories in the Caffrey Conversation AU. Here are a couple of hints for the eggs in this chapter: Hitchum and the passport Mozzie refers to are found in Caffrey Flashback. The Philip Townsend embezzlement case is from Caffrey Conversation. Many thanks to Penna Nomen for donning a pair of floppy bunny ears and helping me scatter those eggs. I hope you enjoy finding them!_

_Next Thursday I'll post Chapter 4: A Matter of Equipment in which Neal's troubles escalate. In the meantime, you may wish to hop over_ _to The Queen's Jewels board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site at_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon/) _where I've posted additional pins, including the music referenced in this chapter._


	4. A Matter of Equipment

**Federal Building. November 16, 2004. Tuesday afternoon.**

After meeting with Neal, Peter called Jones, Diana, and Travis into the conference room for a briefing. It was the first official word the others had received of Neal's status. Peter couldn't recall ever having conducted a meeting so somber. As his agents reacted vehemently to the news, it was a challenge to keep a lid on his own emotions.

"OPR is in charge of the operation now," Peter reminded them, "and we are not to interfere, no matter how much we'd like to."

"But this is crazy," Travis said angrily. "Neal wouldn't steal those earrings."

"I can't believe it either." Jones said. "I was with him when we apprehended Bolotnov. There was no indication he was even briefly tempted."

"As his supervisor," Peter said, "I'm going to make absolutely sure the proceedings are conducted fairly."

A knock was heard on the conference room door and Fowler walked in. Dropping a folder on the table, he said, "These are the copies of the evidence you requested, Agent Burke. If you see any discrepancy, I'd like to hear about it."

Once he left, Peter displayed the photos on the screen. The first image was of the metal evidence box which had contained the earrings. The fingerprints had been found inside the box. The other images were of the fingerprints. It was the first time any of them had seen them. Along with the images were reference photos of Neal's fingerprints from his file.

Travis quickly scanned the printout of the analysis results and said, "The fingerprints were all from the right hand—index finger, middle finger, and thumb. Although somewhat smudged, there's no doubt they were Neal's."

"Something's not right," Peter muttered.

"I refuse to believe that the Neal Caffrey I know would have been stupid enough to leave fingerprints on the box," Diana said. "I don't know him well enough to say with a hundred percent certainty he wouldn't have stolen the earrings, but he's not an idiot. Reckless, yes, annoying, yes, stupid, no."

"I was talking with him about taking my nephew to his fencing match just before Fowler led him off this morning," Jones said. "We were joking around. He was being typical Caffrey." Stroking the side of his face, Jones paused and shook his head. "This has to be a mistake."

"That's it!" Peter slammed his fist down on the table so hard it rattled the coffee mugs. "Fencing! Did any of you notice Neal had a bandage on his right thumb? I asked him about it. He said it was from a fencing accident. Travis, grab your camera and meet me outside the holding room."

A few minutes later Peter along with Travis, a nurse he'd commandeered from the medical clinic a floor below, and an OPR agent to act as witness entered the holding room.

Neal was finishing a sandwich when they entered. "Sorry, they only brought me one sandwich. If I'd known we were having a party…"

"Not now, Neal," Peter said shortly. "This is an official interview,"

Neal watched the nurse warily. "Any news?"

"That's what you will provide right now," said Peter. "Your sandwich can wait."

While Travis videotaped the interview, Peter proceeded. "You have a bandage on your right thumb. State for the record the cause."

Neal shot him a look and a smile flitted across his face. "My thumb was injured in a fencing accident at Columbia University on Friday evening, November 12, at approximately 10 p.m."

"Were there witnesses to the accident?"

"Several members of the club were present, and my thumb was bandaged by our coach."

"Will you allow the bandage to be removed and the cut examined?"

"Of course," and he held out his right hand.

At a nod from Peter, the nurse cut the bandage off to reveal a half-inch diagonal slash on the fleshy part of his thumb. "That's exactly what I wanted to see," Peter said, feeling more buoyant by the moment.

Just then Fowler walked in to the room. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

"New evidence has come to light," Peter said brusquely. "Meet me in Hughes's office and I'll explain."

Peter then asked the nurse to rebandage Neal's thumb. "You can finish that sandwich, now. I hope to have news for you shortly," Peter said, feeling better than he had for hours.

A short while later Peter and Fowler were once again sitting in Hughes's office.

"What's this all about, Peter?" Hughes asked.

"In view of new evidence, Caffrey should be released," Peter said. "First I was able to obtain his agreement to name the person he was with on Saturday night, so there is a corroborating witness."

Responding to Hughes's raised brow, Peter explained, "He was with a woman—didn't want her involved."

"Figures," Hughes muttered, shaking his head. "Go on."

"The fingerprints obtained from the evidence box were of Caffrey's right thumb, index and middle fingers, but they must have been planted, because Caffrey's thumb was cut on Friday night and the thumbprint shows no such cut."

"Is this true, Agent Fowler?" Hughes asked accusingly.

Looking disgruntled, Fowler said, "The thumbprint was smudged and inconclusive in my view, but the other prints were clear. In any case, that doesn't necessarily prove Caffrey didn't do it. He could have deliberately caused the injury to occur and then planted the inconclusive print himself, knowing full well that it would be challenged. He no doubt thought that by conning us to believe he was being set up, he'd be able to get away with the crime."

"C'mon, Fowler, that's nonsense and you know it," Peter blurted, exasperated.

Hughes held up a warning hand. "Make your case, Agent Fowler."

"Caffrey is still the best suspect we have. We all know what an expert safecracker he is. It would have been simple for him to persuade some woman to lie about him being with her. There is still the hair evidence, and we have no other suspect. I say he should be locked up while we investigate further."

"We have to consider the other possibility," Peter countered, "that Caffrey's being framed."

Fowler snorted derisively. "Who would possibly go to these lengths to frame him?"

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your perspectives," Hughes said. "Agent Fowler, I know you'll want to file your report. I'll speak with the Assistant Director at OPR this afternoon. For the time being, Caffrey is to remain where he is."

After Fowler left, Hughes had Peter stay. "I understand how difficult this must be for you, but I have no other choice but to keep you off the case. I must caution you again to be circumspect in your statements. OPR could implicate you too if you're not careful."

Peter knew the frustration in his voice was only too evident. "Someone is trying to railroad Neal out of the FBI."

"Let's assume for the moment you're right and that the evidence was planted to frame Caffrey. Any suspects?"

"Bolotnov could have paid off someone within the Bureau to work with Tramonte or another thief to steal them back. There's also the possibility that someone within the FBI wants to get rid of Neal and is taking advantage of the earrings to do so."

"What's the motive?"

"Someone could be disgruntled over having a former criminal working here. The person could have seized the opportunity to make some easy money with a ready target to pin the blame on."

Hughes looked dubious. "That's carrying a grudge to an extreme. I have difficulty accepting that anyone in the FBI would go to such lengths out of spite."

"Look at what went on with Agent Hitchum. Similar circumstances. He'd been bribed by Neal's uncle Robert Winslow. Hitchum tampered with FBI records to implicate Neal in crimes and then worked with Winslow to try to have him murdered. Hitchum had many friends in the Bureau. One of them may be seeking revenge."

Hughes exhaled. "I'll make sure the Assistant Director of OPR is aware of this, Peter. But the investigation will have to be conducted by them."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was now 4 p.m. Neal had been in the interrogation room since early in the morning, waiting while others decided his fate. Peter had said he hoped to return shortly. Guess that didn't work out. Nothing was breaking his way.

The only call they'd permitted him to make was in the morning to June. Big of them. At least he could alert her about the agents who would shortly descend upon her home and search his apartment. Mindful that everything he said to her was being recorded, he'd limited himself to the bare essentials. June had been a pro and grasped the situation immediately. She'd restrained herself to only offering her support, but Neal still could feel his face flush when he thought of what he'd been forced to request of her.

He'd already covered all the paper Peter had supplied with drawings. Sunday night at band rehearsal he and Richard had performed "Bound for Botany Bay." Prophetic? Sure seemed like it. Whatever. The ballad of a once wild and free Irishman being shipped off in chains on a prison ship bound for Australia provided good inspiration now. He'd spent the past few hours drawing sailing ships while humming the song. Sailing ships were not something he'd ever drawn before. His were looking more like a nightmare's version in any case. Prisoners jumping ship, walking the plank, hanging from the yardarms—

Neal was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by both Peter and Hughes walking into the room. Neal laid his pencil aside and watched them uneasily as they sat down. It didn't take an expert con artist to know Peter wasn't happy.

Hughes put a small black case on the table. "Neal, I know the past few hours have been difficult ones. I've just gotten off the phone with the Assistant Director at OPR, and in light of the uncertainty surrounding the case they continue to believe that you're a suspect. You've been placed on suspended duty until the matter is resolved." Hughes opened up the box. "Furthermore, because of your past record, you are considered a flight risk. In view of that you've been ordered to wear an ankle monitor."

Shocked, Neal stared at the monitor and then at Peter. This couldn't be happening. As warning sirens went off in his head, he choked back the outburst on his lips.

Handing it to him, Hughes said, "This is a state of the art GPS tracking device. Do not attempt to remove it or tamper with it in any way. If you do, a signal will immediately be sent to the U.S. Marshals."

Neal picked up the monitor and rotated it in his hands, studying it.

"You need to go ahead and put it on your ankle," Hughes urged.

Neal stood up and cleared his throat. Putting his foot on the chair, he clamped the monitor in place. Not trusting his voice, he remained silent and hoped the mask on his face sealed off the emotional tsunami raging inside. This was betrayal.

Peter spoke up, obviously trying to soften the blow. "This is not a house arrest, Neal. Hughes was able to secure permission for you to attend your classes at Columbia." Handing him a map, he said, "This shows the area you're restricted to. If you step outside the area, after a 30-second warning signal, you will be considered a fleeing suspect and the marshals will move in to apprehend you."

"I know this seems harsh," Hughes said, "but this is the best compromise we were able to reach. Give us time to get this cleared up and don't give OPR any ammunition in the meantime."

Peter stayed behind when Hughes left. "This isn't over by a long shot, Neal. Let us do our job. Consider this a chance to focus on your studies while we resolve it. You'll be able to work on your art, spend time on campus."

Dreading to hear the answer, Neal asked, "Will Fiona be questioned?"

"Not at this stage. Hughes reminded the Assistant Director about Hitchum's activities and got his assurance OPR will take the possibility of a frame-up into consideration."

"Generous of them," Neal commented bitterly as he picked up and studied the map Hughes had left. His area was restricted to a narrow zone between Riverside Drive and Amsterdam Avenue with June's house the southern boundary, and Prentis Hall at Columbia the northern—roughly 1.3 miles. "One favor. Don't tell my relatives about this. At least not yet."

"You sure this is what you want?"

"Yeah, it's better this way. Am I free to leave now?"

Peter hesitated and looked ill at ease.

"What's going on, Peter?" Neal demanded, reacting angrily. "Is there something else?"

"Agent Rollins from OPR has been ordered to take you home when you've collected your stuff." Neal must have looked incredulous, because Peter added quickly, "Once you're in your designated zone you won't need an escort, but until then …"

"Got it. Until OPR realizes what a travesty this is or charges me with a crime, no museums, no visiting you and El in Brooklyn, no freedom." The full impact of what the anklet meant hit Neal with a sucker punch.

"Till we get this cleared up. Neal, this is only temporary." Peter came around the table and put a hand on his shoulder. "Look, I know you normally go to Columbia on Tuesdays. No reason not to this evening. No one will know. You don't wear shorts to class anyway, right?"

Peter's attempt at humor wasn't much help in easing the sting, and Peter knew that. There was no point in making him feel worse than he already did. It wasn't his fault. Neal coughed up a chuckle, which he was sure sounded as phony to Peter as it did to his own ears.

"I'll come over tomorrow morning and we'll talk more. In the meantime, nothing stupid, okay?"

Neal didn't answer immediately. Peter was expecting him to respond with a quip to their standard joke, but anything that came out now he'd most likely regret later. "Tell Rollins I'll be out in a minute," he finally managed.

Neal busied himself collecting his drawings and putting them in a folder. Peter hadn't asked to look at them. Good thing. When he held his exhibition of prison drawings, Peter could see them then. When Peter left shortly afterwards, Neal didn't look up.

The bullpen was quiet when Neal returned to collect a few items out of his desk. He was glad Jones and Diana weren't around. Did they believe he was guilty too? He didn't want to take a chance at seeing their looks of incrimination. There had been enough humiliation for one day. Rollins was waiting by the elevator. At least he hadn't gone into the bullpen with him. A token gesture but he'd take it.

Travis entered the bullpen when he was picking up his fedora. Walking over to Neal, he said in a low voice, "We're going to do all we can to help you fight this. You know that, right? You need anything, you call me."

"Thanks," he said. Travis meant well, but Neal was in no mood for conversation. His thoughts were spinning out of control and he didn't trust what would come out of his mouth.

**Burke residence. November 16, 2004. Tuesday evening.**

"But surely with such flimsy evidence they'll have to let Neal go?" El said as she handed Peter a dish towel. Peter had filled her in on the events of the day when he got home, and that's all they'd discussed over dinner. The more they talked about it, the harder it was to defend OPR's actions.

"I believe they will eventually," Peter said, drying a glass. "There's not enough evidence for it ever to go to trial. But Neal's career at the FBI could be over if he's not cleared. You have to understand, OPR is completely independent by design to ensure the public's trust that the FBI holds agents to a higher standard than the general public. So even though Neal couldn't be convicted in a court of law, OPR could have his contract terminated."

"How's he handling it?"

"Not well. It makes me worry his flight instinct will kick in. In the past whenever he was confronted with something that was too tough to deal with, he bolted. I could see it in his eyes, when he saw the anklet. He reminded me of a wild animal ensnared in a trap. If he didn't have Columbia now, I don't know if he could control it. As it is, I'm not sure that will be enough." He paused drying a plate to consider. "When Hughes and I went in to see him, I noticed he'd been drawing sailing ships. It made me wonder if he was planning to stow away on one. If they'd been airplanes, I'd have been convinced of it. I'm probably just being paranoid, but I don't have any feel for how long he'll give us."

"From what you say Columbia may not provide much stability. Neal's no doubt stressing that agents will show up to question his friends, his girl . . ." Shaking her head, she added, "He must be feeling very alone right now. I feel so inadequate to help. I remember meeting Fiona at Columbia's Family Day, but I didn't know they were dating."

"Don't feel bad. I didn't either."

"We need to make sure he knows he still has us. You said you're going to see him in the morning. I'd like to go over and take him lunch."

"Good idea. I'll bring it up when I see him and give you a call." Neal might respond better to El than to him. Peter was not at all confident of his own standing with Neal at this point. After he'd told Neal not to worry about being a target, that's exactly what happened. Neal may have felt betrayed, or at the very least abandoned. Did Neal still trust him? And even if he'd didn't hold Peter responsible, there was no reason for Neal to view OPR in a charitable light. Did that include the entire Bureau?

El broke into his thoughts. "How about Thanksgiving? Should we go ahead and cancel our plans? We can't leave Neal and go off to see your parents as if nothing happened."

"If we call them, we'll have to explain why, and Neal doesn't want us to tell anyone yet." He hung up the towel. "I can understand where he's coming from. It's humiliating and also reflects badly on the FBI. I don't want to even think about what his cousin Henry or his aunt Noelle would say. We still have a few days before we have to let them know. Noelle and my brother Joe arrive at my parents' next Monday. They're taking advantage of Thanksgiving to finalize their wedding plans. Neal was planning to take the bus up on Friday. If his case isn't resolved by then, we may need to be there to explain in person what the hell happened."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At first Neal had planned not to go to Columbia that evening despite Peter's advice, but since he'd already committed to a group workshop, he decided to go ahead. Before he left, he practiced sitting in front of the mirror, checking to see if anyone would be able to spot the anklet. Just another con, he told himself.

At the workshop Neal sat at the back. He was there physically, but emotionally he was in another dimension. He could see the others, but couldn't interact with them. The monitor was a dead weight around his ankle, isolating him from everyone else. He found himself wanting to stare at it as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled out, ready to detonate at any moment.

His mood didn't improve on the subway ride back home. Even though there were few passengers at that late hour, Neal remained standing, obsessed that someone would spot it, point him out, and move away in revulsion. He knew he was being ridiculous. But it still felt like he was branded a criminal for all the world to see.

When he returned home, Mozzie was already there waiting for him. "Let me see it," Mozzie said when he entered the loft.

Neal took off his jacket and putting his foot on a chair, rolled up his pants leg.

Mozzie got close, studied the mechanism and shook his head, "Sorry, mon frère, I can't pick it. I'm afraid you're stuck with it." He walked over to the kitchen and returned with two slices of cake, putting them on the table. Neal watched as he uncorked a bottle of Madeira and poured out two glasses. "I stopped off at the Aloha Emporium on my way here. I thought you needed some comfort food. Billy insisted on sending along a guava blossom cake. This Madeira should pair nicely with it."

Billy Feng was an old friend, a retired cat burglar who now owned a Hawaiian-themed store and cafe. The Aloha Emporium was just south of Columbia University on 113th Street. His daughter Maggie was a florist and also helped with the store. Billy was like Byron—an example of how one could successfully escape from one's past. Neal thought he'd been on the same trajectory, but now it looked like he wouldn't be allowed to pursue it. He glanced briefly at the slice of cake, but the way his stomach was roiling, he decided not to subject it to any food. Neal picked up the wine glass and moved over to the couch.

Bringing his plate and glass over, Mozzie sat beside him. "Tell me everything that happened."

As Neal described the evidence and the reactions, it was excruciatingly clear that this was no ordinary frame.

"If you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas," Mozzie said, summing it up.

"Not helpful, Mozz."

"Let me put it another way. You realize someone is trying to discredit you so severely with the FBI you won't be able to work there, don't you? There's not sufficient evidence for you to be convicted, but more than enough for your reputation to be so sullied, you'll be untouchable. Do you still not want to run?"

Rotating the wine glass in his hand, Neal hesitated. The old Neal would have panicked and fled with Mozzie tonight. Run away from his problems. "If I leave now, I not only give up on the FBI and Columbia but on Peter. I'm not prepared to do that yet."

"There are other options to running. You could thumb your nose at the suits and quit. Make a preemptive strike. Study full time at Columbia or go work at Winston-Winslow. Didn't you tell me your cousin Henry's grandfather Graham Winslow continues to try to pry you away? This is your chance. You'd be paid handsomely. You could work with Henry."

"I doubt Graham will still want me once he hears of this. Besides, Win-Win's in Baltimore. If I went to work there, I'd have to leave Columbia."

"So what are you going to do?"

"For now, go to classes, work on my art. I'm behind on writing some papers"—Mozzie started to interrupt, but Neal stopped him with a gesture—"and make plans. For that I need your help. I want to be ready when the next shoe drops. If this ends with me having to quit the FBI, I can deal with that. But if it looks like . . ." Neal got up to pace. "I'm not going to prison. And I won't wear this anklet for years either."

"That's more like it. Storm the ramparts, vive le proletariat!" Mozzie jumped up and fetched the _Monopoly_ board from the bookcase. Sweeping away Neal's books and laptop from the table, he opened the box and began laying out the pieces. "Get Out of Jail Free cards—I'll reserve these for future use. You'll be the battleship. I'll take the top hat. Gordon Taylor can be the race car. Let's see, Boardwalk will be France, Indiana Avenue represents Brazil … Come on, Neal. Sit down. It's time to excavate some more rabbit holes."

Neal gave his first genuine laugh of the day. "Maybe some really long ones. Make Pacific Avenue Australia. The Land Down Under has been on my mind." He slid into a chair. That slice of cake, coated with macadamia nuts, was calling to him. Maybe one forkful . . . 

"Excellent choice." Mozzie beamed in approval. "Australia's delightful this time of year. And their wines are superb. Did you know they're the main source for pink diamonds? I should look into acquiring a tropical wardrobe to have on hand. Billy has a new shipment of Hawaiian shirts I've had my eye on. We could stop off in Hawaii and visit some of his relatives. They'd let us stay with them for weeks. You could lie on the beach. I'd find a lanai to sit in the shade and sip pineapple wine."

Neal helped himself to more of the cake. "That reminds me—I have a job for your expert tailoring service."

"My needle is yours to command," he said with a bow, "and also my cleaning service." Mozzie peered at Neal over his glasses and added pointedly, "You, mon frère, are in need of an exterminator."

 

* * *

_Notes: Help comes from an unexpected direction in Chapter 5: The Council of the Musketeers which I'll post next Thursday. Neal will also pay a visit to Billy Feng at the Aloha Emporium. Billy is a new character and resembles Jackie Chan. Find pins for him as well as his fabulous cake in the latest updates to The Queen's Jewels board at our Caffrey Conversation_ _Pinterest site at_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon/) _._

_Thanks to Penna Nomen for cake-testing and you for reading. Your comments are better than a slice of guava blossom cake!_


	5. The Council of the Musketeers

**Ellington Mansion. November 17, 2004. Wednesday morning.**

When he rang the doorbell at the Ellington Mansion, Peter was uneasy about what kind of reception he'd get. Yesterday the FBI had suspended Neal. Several agents had searched his apartment. How had Neal explained it to her?

June opened the door herself. "Come in, Peter." She was as gracious as always, but there was a new tone of wariness to her voice.

Peter decided to address the issue squarely. "I hope you don't think that I in any way approved of the actions that were taken yesterday."

 "I'm not holding you responsible," she said with a nod. "Neal explained what a difficult situation you'd been placed in. He's upstairs." As he turned toward the stairwell, she restrained him with a hand on his arm. "I'm counting on you to make things right."

"You and I are in agreement. We're all working toward the same goal."

Peter found Neal at work at his table. Textbooks were scattered around him. He'd been typing on his laptop when Peter knocked at the door.

"Taking my advice, I see. Good, good . . ." God this felt awkward.

Neal appeared to understand. "It’s okay. Have a seat. Coffee?" He seemed much calmer than the previous day. On the surface that was a positive sign, but did it hide something more dangerous going on? Yesterday Neal had been easy to read. Hurt, anger, all his emotions were on the table. Today he was smooth and distant. Too much in control. Peter's radar was pinging him a warning.

"Sure, thanks." While Neal poured the coffee Peter looked over at what he was writing. Something about tombs in Amarna. "You working on a paper?"

"It's for my course on Egyptian art." Putting down the mug in front of him, Neal asked, "Have you heard anything?"

"Not much. Yesterday afternoon I supplied Hughes with details about the previous frame attempts. Hughes is acting as our liaison to OPR on this. I'm not to work directly with Fowler."

Neal nodded. "You need to keep your distance from my case."

"But that doesn't mean I can't confer with Hughes and offer advice," Peter cautioned. "And others are helping too. Travis is working on the digital feed, trying to recover the lost record. How do you think the fingerprints were planted?"

"The easiest way would have been to pocket a glass I'd used and lift the prints. A sophisticated thief like Tramonte would have made latex gloves that had the prints embossed on the surface. He would have worn them during the heist. When he stole the earrings, the prints would have been properly placed. He probably only had prints for my right hand—that's why nothing was found for my left hand."

"You think it was Tramonte?"

"There are so few who knew we had the earrings, he's an obvious suspect. Bolotnov could have used another of his Mafia connections, but given the limited time, that would have been very difficult. The earrings were stolen only a day after being placed in the vault. It was either Tramonte or someone at the FBI or both."

Peter picked up on that thread. "Let's assume it was someone at the FBI. What do you feel the motive is?"

Neal shrugged. "Greed or to get rid of me. Maybe both." As Peter was about to answer, Neal's phone buzzed. Glancing at the display, he said, "Sorry, I need to get this," and walked over to the patio doors. "Hey, Fiona. Everything okay?" What followed was a short conversation with Fiona doing most of the talking. Neal kept his back to Peter while he talked. Afterwards he rejoined Peter at the table.

"No problems I hope?"

"She's fine. I'm a little jumpy these days. OPR bugged my loft when they searched it yesterday. Did you know about that?"

"No," said Peter, dismayed. Neal must have been wondering whether or not to tell him. "But I'm not surprised."

"Mozzie found them yesterday evening. They'd planted two bugs. Good thing June approved the new surveillance system. If they try to replace them, I'll know about it. I've borrowed one of Mozzie's detectors to check my studio every day."

Trying to lighten the tension, Peter said, "Good thing you're so familiar with FBI surveillance tactics. OPR may try to play its version of Tuesday Tails on you too, and I'm willing to bet they'll be outplayed just like the White Collar team is."

Neal acknowledged his comment with a half-smile that was more of a wince. Tuesday Tails was a game Neal had invented when he started at White Collar. Some of the more suspicious members of the team had attempted to tail him with dismal results. Neal had turned that experience into a game and won over the team in the process.

"The situation with Columbia must be weighing heavily on you, and I was able to obtain some clarity on that front. Yesterday OPR agreed to hold off interviewing Fiona. I called Hughes this morning and he obtained their confirmation that at least for now they won't contact anyone at Columbia. That includes your professors and your friends. OPR intends to research the previous frame attempts before taking any further action."

Neal looked skeptical at the news. "I appreciate you checking, Peter, but you'll forgive me if I don't put too much trust in what they tell you. I hope they hold to it." His veneer showed signs of cracking as he added bitterly, "Maybe it will satisfy them to end my FBI career and not Columbia too."

"I'm doing all I can to prevent both from happening," Peter reminded him.

But his words didn't have the reassuring effect he was looking for as Neal got up and began to pace. "Don't ruin your own career too. I'll be fine. Win-Win will take me. If I thought your career would go up in flames too, I —"

"That won't happen," Peter interjected quickly. Neal didn't need any extra emotional burdens. Peter hadn't realized his own situation was such an issue with Neal. That could give him an even greater incentive to disappear. "I have to ask:  you're not planning to run, are you?"

Raising a brow, Neal said, "Cut my anklet? That would be illegal, Peter."

"And you and I both know that wouldn't stop you. Back at the cabin last spring I'd asked you to let me know first before you ran. I'm asking you again now. Give me a chance to talk with you about your options. Or talk with Henry if you won't let me know."

Neal came back to the table and sat down. "Henry has his own issues to deal with. And he's not that easy to contact. He's still in India with his grandfather. I haven't heard from him in weeks." Not answering Peter directly, he added, "Right now I'm more angry than anything else."

"Good. Take that anger, control it, and use it to fight back because we're fighting this together. You're not alone in this, Neal. I understand why you don't want your relatives to be informed but you have me, you have El. She'd like to bring lunch over today. Is that all right?"

"That may not be the best idea. Both of you should stay away. The more you're with me, the more your own career could be compromised."

Not liking what he was hearing, Peter warned, "Don't do this, Neal. Don't put up walls. Let people in, let them help you. It won't do any harm to let El come over."

"All right," Neal agreed reluctantly. "I won't be that great of company. But if she really wants to, my social calendar has an opening at lunch." Glancing at his watch, he added, "Shouldn't you be leaving? You must have a lot of extra paperwork to do now that you've lost your ace paper-cruncher."

Peter stood up. "What? And leave nothing for you to do when you get back? The stack can easily wait for your return."

"Thanks. Never thought I'd say it, but being your file-pusher has a definite appeal. I appreciate the vote of confidence." Getting up, he hesitated and, looking uneasy, asked, "What about Jones and Diana? Have they written me off?"

"Trust me," Peter said, clapping him on the back, "they all believe you're far too smart to have done this. I won't quote Diana's exact words but you should be comforted to learn that no one feels you're that stupid. Don't prove them wrong. Don't go flying off on impulse. Promise?"

"Nothing stupid, check," Neal replied with a trace of his former lightness, but there was nothing Peter found reassuring in his glib smile.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal went for a morning run after Peter left. Fortunately his radius included Riverside Park which was across the street from June's so he didn't have to sacrifice his favorite route along the Hudson River. Midmorning, he had the path almost to himself. He'd have to admit, there were a few perks to his new status. Neal had learned as a child that running let him give in to his flight instinct and de-stress. Back then it had helped him deal with his mom's alcoholism. Now, if only for a short while, the act of running made him feel free.

It was gratifying to hear the others also didn't think he'd stolen the earrings. But despite Peter's words of reassurance, nothing had changed. How long would OPR leave him in limbo? Some cases dragged on for months or even years. Even if the FBI didn't contact Columbia, it would still blow up in his face. Now that he couldn't visit museums, he only had a brief window before he'd have to inform his professors. Once Columbia knew about his past history, his dream would be over. No one would want a suspected felon around valuable works of art. There'd be nothing he could do that would keep Noelle and his grandparents from learning he'd been forced to drop out of their alma mater in disgrace. Even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't cover that over with a con. All he could do was to drop back out of their lives so they wouldn't have to deal with it. That'd be the kindest solution. Some short-term pain, but then it'd be over.

And Peter? Hughes had warned him in the summer to not monopolize Peter's time, not ask for special treatment, not be "a teacher's pet" in Hughes's words. Hughes was concerned back then over the harm Neal could do to Peter's career. How much worse was the situation now? For Peter's sake, if for nothing else, he shouldn't let the wound fester. If he disappeared now, he could cauterize the damage.

Peter and El would be in Albany for Thanksgiving visiting Peter's parents. Originally Neal had planned to join them the day after, but unless some miracle occurred that would be out of the question. That could be the best time to run. When everyone was gone. It'd be easier that way. He could call Peter afterwards and explain. Thank him. They'd given it their best shot. It had almost worked. Hopefully Peter wouldn't have too many regrets for having given Neal the chance.

Neal paused to catch his breath. He'd been running so hard, he hadn't paid any attention to where he was going. His route had taken him close to the Henry Hudson Parkway—had he gone outside his boundary? His heart racing, he stared down at his anklet. Still green. No marshals yet. He was now almost as far north as Columbia. When he checked for the nearest cross street, he discovered he wasn't far from the Aloha Emporium. He decided to pay Billy a visit.

**The Aloha Emporium, West 113th Street.**

Neal opened the door to the Aloha Emporium to the soft tinkle of wind chimes. On his walk over from Riverside Park, he'd cooled down enough that the warmth of the store was welcome. The front of the store was crowded with Hawaiian shirts, sarongs, sandals, and other tropical attire. Shelves held a wide array of Hawaiian foods, gift items, and tropical plants. Toward the back of the store a space had been carved out for a cafe with baked goods displayed behind the counter. Neal fingered one of the shirts as he entered. Would this be his new life? Was that straw fedora he'd bought last summer in Las Vegas an omen? He waved to Maggie who was helping a customer at the jewelry counter and strolled over to the cafe where he found Billy.

Billy was in his early fifties but looked younger. His thick hair was still jet black. He moved with the grace of the skilled cat burglar he'd once been. Mozzie had told him he'd been at the top of his profession when he retired to go legit. That had been years before Neal made his acquaintance. Billy maintained a low center of gravity when he walked as if he were ready to spring into an acrobatic maneuver at any moment. Neal had often wondered if he didn't know martial arts, but Billy refused to discuss it.

A broad smile crinkled Billy's face when he saw Neal enter the shop. "Aloha! I must have known you were coming. I'd just made a pot of Kona coffee. Take a seat and I'll join you." Billy was dressed in his customary Hawaiian shirt, linen pants, and sandals. Neal had never seen him in anything else and often wondered how he survived New York winters. Since he lived over the shop, perhaps he never went out. Billy's world was that building. He'd converted the top floor into an extensive greenhouse and orchid grow room and was able to provide Maggie with most of the flowers she used in her arrangements.

Thanking him for the cake Mozzie had brought over, Neal sat down at one of the small bamboo tables in the cafe while Billy poured out two coffees for them.

"I saw you looking at my shirts. Mozzie mentioned you may be leaving. Have you decided?"

Neal shrugged. "Not yet. Mozzie thinks I should go ahead."

"Mozzie can be very persuasive."

Neal watched the blades of the ceiling fan slowly sweep overhead as he imagined what it would be like if he shapeshifted into a new life in the tropics.

Rousing him from his thoughts, Billy got up and retrieved an orchid from behind the counter. "Handsome, isn't it?" The orchid was strikingly patterned in golds, maroons and umber. The sepals resembled tiger stripes.

"It's stunning," Neal said, admiring it. "I've never seen anything like it."

"It's called Hilo Gold. I'm particularly proud of it." Billy sat down and placed the orchid on the table in front of them. "Orchids are funny, temperamental creatures. In the wild most cling happily to tree bark, suspended in the air. If you try to plant them in the ground, they wither and die on you. Uprooting them is a delicate operation. I'd transplanted this one eight months ago. It promptly collapsed, losing all its leaves except one which turned a sickly yellowish-green. For months I tended the plant carefully, adjusting the humidity, the temperature, the amount of sunlight, the soil, but it was stubborn, this one, and resisted all my efforts. The one remaining leaf had withered away months ago and all I had left was one barren stalk. At last I decided to accept the inevitable and cast it into the compost bin."

"Clearly you didn't though. What made you stop?"

Billy shrugged. "Maybe its ghost spoke to me? In any case, instead of giving up on it, I put it aside on a top shelf and ignored it for three weeks. Last week I returned to it and now look at it. It's magnificent." Briefly laying a hand on his shoulder, Billy left to wait on a customer.

What was Billy telling him? As he finished his coffee, Neal contemplated the orchid. Customers were starting to come in for lunch. Neal glanced at his watch and realized with shock El would be arriving at the loft shortly. Quickly paying his bill, he raced home.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Lunch with Elizabeth was another stutter step in the farce that was now Neal's life. He appreciated the trouble she'd gone to, but having her there simply reinforced all the trouble he was in. El had tried out a new recipe for Greek chicken pasta that she hoped to use at an event. They made pleasant banter about art and her fledgling event-planning business, all the while dancing around his situation. He knew El wanted to lend her support, but there was nothing she could do, and it made it all the harder to know that she was aware of what had happened.

El didn't bring up Thanksgiving but they discussed Noelle and Joe's wedding. In early November Noelle and Joe had settled on Hawaii for the location, a place neither one had ever visited. It would be symbolic of a fresh start. The marriage was scheduled to take place during the Christmas holidays and El was serving as wedding coordinator. She'd brought over dessert, but Neal insisted she try some of the guava blossom cake, a Hawaiian specialty.

"Yum …" El rolled her eyes with pleasure. "Neal, this is heavenly. Where did you find a Hawaiian bakery in Manhattan?"

Neal described the Aloha Emporium to her. "You may like to make use of them for your events. Maggie is a gifted florist and specializes in tropical flowers. I picked up a card for you last time I was there."

"Do you think they'd be willing to help me out with Hawaiian contacts?" El asked, slipping the card into her purse. "When Noelle asked me to coordinate the wedding, I was honored but also felt a little overwhelmed. Planning something like this long distance is a huge undertaking. I could simply take advantage of the hotel's caterer, but I'd like to make their wedding more distinctive."

"Billy's family in Hawaii is so large, they must know all the best tradespeople. I'll get in touch with him to expect you."

El continued to talk about her ideas for the wedding as she put away the dishes. Neal kept step in an intricate pas de deux while he helped her, laughing at the right moments, teasing her at the appropriate places, all the while calculating the odds that he'd be able to attend. El was acting as if it were a certainty, joking about relying on him to keep Henry out of mischief. Neal didn't contradict her, but thought to himself she'd better make other plans. Possibly he could sneak in from Australia or wherever he was by then, but if he did, Peter would have to arrest him.

After El left, Neal berated himself for not having handled her visit better. After all, she was just trying to boost his spirits. When he said goodbye to her at the door, he wondered if that would be the last time he'd see her for a long, long while.

It was now two o'clock. Neal had promised Richard he'd help him set up a working model of his kinetic sculpture that evening. Aidan was also coming over and had offered to pick up pizza on the way. They'd discussed it last Sunday—that seemed a lifetime ago. It was tempting to cancel, but he might not have many more opportunities to see them so Neal decided to stick to the plan. He set off for his studio early to get in some painting before the others arrived.

Not helping his mood—although after Peter's words it was slightly more amusing—was the tail that followed him out of the mansion. He didn't recognize who it was. Someone from OPR most likely. No matter. He'd lost the tail before catching the subway.

Neal wore the longest jeans he had but still felt that the monitor was broadcasting to the world he was a criminal. It felt heavy and awkward on his ankle—a high tech ball and chain. It made it that much easier to believe that working for the FBI had been one long con, and now the expiration date had arrived.

Entering his studio, Neal got out his paints. He studied his works. Some were more rudimentary than others. What would be the best strategy? Try to finish one before he ran? He could leave it as a parting gift for Peter and El. But his mood was too foul to pick up where he'd left off and he didn't want to risk ruining one of them. He could work on that later. Still a few days left.

Neal got out a blank canvas. Stockman harped on not holding back, on painting from the heart, from the gut. She wanted raw emotion. Well, he could give her raw. He transferred his emotions to his fingers, to the paints, and onto the canvas.

 …

"Neal, surprised to see you here so early!"

Startled, Neal turned away from his canvas to see Richard in the doorway. Glancing at his watch, he was amazed to see he'd been painting solid for close to three hours.

Richard plopped down on the extra stool. "Is this a FBI holiday?"

"Something like that."

"You were smart to wear jeans. I should have brought a change of clothes." Richard walked over to the painting he'd been working on and studied it. "This is a new style for you."

Neal laughed it off. "I was experimenting with techniques. Started off with surrealism—"

"—and took a right turn into abstract expressionism. This has hints of Joan Mitchell—chaotic, primordial. Stockman will love it."

Glad for the break, Neal put away his paints. Aidan wasn't due for another half hour. They were deep into a conversation on monochrome paintings when Aidan showed up, loaded down with pizza and drinks. "I've got the food. Shall we trash your studio first and then move to Richard's for the sculpture?"

"Might as well start here," Neal agreed. "With all the gear Richard has in his studio, there's barely room to sit." Richard brought in an extra stool from his studio as Neal cleared off his work table.

Aidan and Richard had come straight from work and were still in their business clothes. Normally Neal would have been too. He'd worn jeans to better hide his anklet, but now he was having second thoughts. It accentuated the chasm he felt between the others. Aidan was a computer programmer, Richard a stock analyst, and Neal? Big question mark.

After the pizza was devoured, they moved to Richard's studio to set up the sculpture. Richard was designing a complex mobile using small steel balls suspended from bars by thin wires. Each ball was connected electronically. A central computer controlled the mechanics. When assembled the sculpture would transform into different shapes. This was a working prototype for a large-scale version to be built for the May exhibition.

"Careful," Richard warned Aidan. "You've got the right quadrangle out of alignment."

"I can fix that," Neal said and he stood on the step ladder to reach the top suspension bar.

"You need to move it further to the right," Aidan advised.

"Like this?" Neal asked and stretched his arm further out.

"Eight inches more… that's it," said Richard. "Now don't move. Don't breathe."

"Oh, sure, like I'm really going to stay balanced on one foot with both arms outstretched. You want to toss me some plates so I can start juggling? I feel like a Chinese acrobat. You better work on how you'll balance the structure."

"Hold on for another minute, while I mark the position," Aidan said as he got up on a step stool and marked a spot on the suspension bar. "All right, you can come down now, but only if you tell me what's on your ankle."

Neal momentarily froze. The previous evening when he attended the workshop, he'd outlined what he'd say if someone spotted the anklet. He was prepared to laugh it off, claiming he was testing a new device for the FBI. And that was his first instinct now. But these were his friends. Conning them held no appeal. Better they hear it from him than OPR.

Neal got off the ladder and faced the pair of them. Bracing himself for their reaction, he gave himself a final mental shove. "A pair of valuable earrings was stolen from the FBI vault over the weekend. You're looking at the prime suspect," and he gave a brief summary of what had gone down.

"But that's ridiculous," Richard sputtered in disbelief. "No way could they try you on something like this with so little evidence."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you," said Neal bitterly, "but they claim they're being reasonable."

"I don't understand. With the fingerprints obviously a forgery, why don't they believe you?" Aidan challenged. "Whoever took the earrings had to know how to crack a safe, elude the security guards. It would take a master thief. And they suspect you? What gives?"

Good questions, Neal thought to himself. How was he going to explain his tenuous standing at the FBI to his friends? Deflect the question? That was second nature. No one at Columbia knew about his former life, at least not yet. If he told them now, was he simply throwing in the towel? On the other hand, he'd been working on establishing more honest relationships. Here was a chance to let them in. And in fairness, if someone had just told him about it, he wouldn't be able to understand it either without a little more explanation.

The three of them were sitting on the floor among the boxes and clutter of Richard's studio. Assembling the sculpture had been cast aside.

Neal picked up one of the spare balls and rolled it in his hands. "Did you ever wonder why the FBI hired me as a consultant? It wasn't because I'm a math whiz. Until last year I had a different life and got involved in some pretty shady undertakings. I was never arrested, but I acquired skills that are generally only used by those engaged in illegal activities. Those days are behind me, but the FBI is fully aware of what my past was like. That's why they wanted me, and now, it's why I'm an easy scapegoat."

Their reaction was surprisingly subdued. No gasps, no revulsion. He expected more fireworks than this.

"Good thing they don't know about my college hacks," Aidan said with a huff. "You're looking at the Hack Madness Champion of the MIT Tournament of Hacks, and not just for one year but two years in a row."

"Hell, we've all had our rebellious moments," Richard said. "If the FBI knew everything I'd pulled in high school, I'd have been locked up long ago."

Neal chuckled and shook his head. Stealing from the Louvre ranked slightly higher than hacking a football game, but he wasn't about to split hairs.

"So, d'Artagnan, it sounds to me like what you need right now are some good friends," Aidan said. "Wrongly accused, pursued by the King's agents, a theft of the Queen's jewels—what you need are your fellow musketeers."

Richard immediately bought in to the idea. "Who's Richelieu in our scenario?" he demanded.

Neal laughed him off. The Three Musketeers' joke was a good one, but that was as far as it was going.

But Richard was not to be deterred. "C'mon, d'Artagnan. Give us a name."

"Garrett Fowler. He's leading the investigation for the FBI. He's ruthless, apparently obsessed with ruining me."

"I assume he has well-placed connections?" Aidan asked.

"The best," Neal admitted glumly.

"Then it's obvious he's the evil mastermind. How will we stop him?"

Neal felt like saying, _We will do nothing. I've already told you too much_ , but he opted to play along for a little while longer. "Piece of cake. Recover the jewels, expose the true thief. Too bad this time there won't be any queen around to reward us with treasure for having saved her honor."

"I don't suppose you want to cast the fair Constance?" Aidan asked slyly.

"Put that thought out of your mind. I'm not including Fiona in this!" Neal protested, nipping that suggestion in the bud.

"All for one and one for all," Richard said. "SAS needed a motto. That works for me." He stood up and wrote AFO in big letters with a dramatic flourish on the whiteboard underneath SAS. "What do you think? I have dibs on Porthos. Flamboyant and larger than life, that's me."

"I've always fancied myself an Aramis," Aidan declared, striking a pose. "Wasn't he the one with the most amorous adventures?"

"That only leaves us Athos," Richard said.

"That part is already spoken for," Neal said with a grin. He knew just the person for that role.

"So tell me more about this monitor you're wearing," Aidan ordered. "How's it work?"

"It's GPS enabled," Neal said, showing off his anklet. "Stylish, isn't it? It connects to the U.S. Marshals. If I move out of my assigned radius or cut it, an alert immediately goes to them and the manhunt starts."

Aidan got up to look at it more closely. "Hmm . . . bet I could hack it."

"Hey, I'm not getting you into trouble. This Three Musketeers stuff was entertaining but you can't be involved. I won't drag you into this with me."

"You don't know who you're talking to," scoffed Aidan. "I live for danger." At Neal's snort of disbelief, he added, "Okay, my MIT hacks were just practical jokes, but the cybersecurity firm I work for relies on my solid knowledge of code cracking. Keeping my skills razor-sharp by hacking your anklet—if they only knew, they'd give me a bonus."

"And if we're talking about being on the fringe of the law, there must be some pirate blood in me," added Richard. "On my mother's side we're a bunch of reprobate Cajuns. Her maiden name was Billot and some of them claim to be descendants of Jean Lafitte."

"You're telling me you have pirate blood and you haven't taken up fencing?" Aidan exclaimed. "That's gonna change tonight, Porthos."

Eventually they returned to Richard's mobile, but once it was assembled, Richard and Aidan insisted on going to the Roaring Lion Pub to seal their new pact. What had previously seemed to be so catastrophic was now just another adventure for the musketeers. For a few hours Neal could forget it was his life which was being threatened.

Afterwards Aidan demanded they stop off at the gym for fencing practice and give Richard his first lesson. In hindsight, visiting a pub before a fencing lesson was probably not the brightest idea. But, even so, Richard wasn't bad. The two of them seemed intent on cheering Neal up, and they succeeded. They made plans to fence every evening before the match with Harvard on Saturday. Aidan added Richard to the club roster so he'd be able to suit up with the others even though he wouldn't compete in the match.

It was after 2 a.m. when Neal finally headed back to his apartment. When he'd taken the subway this afternoon, "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac was playing in his head. Now he was humming "The Rising" by the Boss, Bruce Springsteen. He had his crew and a tantalizing idea was starting to take hold. There might be a way to fight back after all.

 

* * *

_Notes: If you'd like to view the Hilo Gold orchid and speculate on what Billy was advising Neal, a photo is pinned to The Queen's Jewels board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. Coming next Thursday is Chapter 6: The Mousetrap when Neal will spend quality time in Columbia's network of tunnels._


	6. The Mousetrap

**Neal's loft. November 18, 2004. Thursday morning.**

After a late night with his fellow musketeers, Neal slept in on Thursday morning. When he awoke, his apartment was already flooded with bright sunlight. Lying in bed, he looked gloomily down at his anklet. The green light leered up at him like an evil eye. Aidan called it his iron mask. Well, at least he wasn't locked away in a prison, and he was determined to keep that scenario from becoming a reality.

His cell phone rang. Fiona. At nine o'clock in the morning? Why was she calling so early? Had OPR contacted her? Swiping a hand through his hair, he cleared his throat and answered.

False alarm. She'd only called to arrange a meeting after his class this evening to discuss the Thanksgiving schedule. Sure. Why not? What were the odds he'd still be around at Thanksgiving?

Could Aidan actually succeed in hacking the anklet? If he could, Neal would be able to pay a visit to Tramonte. Neal was convinced he was the thief. But with every day that passed, the likelihood that he still had the earrings grew more remote. And even if Tramonte had them, stealing them back wouldn't help Neal's case. He'd have to somehow prove Tramonte had taken them.

Neal dressed quickly and prepared breakfast. Over coffee, he called Mozzie. "Can you come over this morning? I have an idea"—a knock on the door interrupted his call—"hold on, Mozz."

June was at the door. "Neal, a man identifying himself as Agent Garrett Fowler is here to see you. Should I let him up?" She added in a low voice, "I don't like his looks. I wouldn't trust him."

"Thanks, June. I don't have a choice." What could Fowler want? Telling Mozzie he'd call him back, Neal waited for the next round.

Garrett Fowler knocked at the door shortly afterwards. "Sorry to bother you at home, Neal," he said. "This is quite a place you have."

"I was just having breakfast—coffee?" Might as well be courteous. Having him on his turf gave Neal a sense of being in control. At work he'd felt like a pawn on the chessboard, but today his knight was in play.

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it." Fowler was a different man compared with what he'd been like at the Bureau. What was the cause of this new friendly attitude?  

Neal motioned for him to take a seat at the table while he got the coffee. "Any progress on the case?"

"That's what I wanted to speak to you about. Unfortunately, there hasn't been any new evidence uncovered. So far we have no other suspects." Shaking his head regretfully, Fowler added, "Neal, I believe you when you say you're innocent. No doubt you've been given a bum rap. I'm sorry to have to be involved in this."

_Sure you are_. What game is Fowler playing now? Neal simply nodded and allowed him to continue talking.

"Your history makes the charges extremely difficult to fight, however. I discussed your case with the Assistant Director yesterday and raised the issue of the falsified fingerprints. It pains me to say that I couldn't sway him. He's convinced you deliberately planted the bogus thumb print to cast doubts on your guilt. He said the safecracking expertise you'd demonstrated in Geneva proves you're the only one who has both the skill and the inside knowledge to be able to pull this off."

How did the Assistant Director know about Geneva? Neal was confident he hadn't mentioned anything about Geneva in his confession. Inwardly seething, Neal was careful to show no reaction to his words.

"That brings me to the reason I came. The Assistant Director has authorized me to tell you that if you'll quit the FBI, all charges will be dropped. He recognizes that the evidence may not be convincing enough for a trial but he can guarantee that you'll be unable to continue at the FBI. If you leave now voluntarily, we will not pursue the case and there will be no further repercussions. We will not contact Columbia about you." Fowler leaned forward, gesturing with his open hands as if to show what a trustworthy fellow he was. "This is a great deal. Don't dismiss it without giving it some thought."

Neal fixed his eyes on Garrett and hesitated for several seconds. "How long do I have to decide?"

"You have twenty-four hours. Let's say by noon tomorrow. All you need do is give me a call and I'll start the paperwork." Garrett paused as if to let his words sink in. "You still have Columbia. No one there will know about your past. You can pursue your career to be an artist, or do whatever else you want, just not work at the FBI. Hell, after you get your degree, you were probably thinking of quitting anyway. This way you'll be able to study full-time and get that degree faster."

Neal slapped a look of gratitude on his face. "You've given me a lot to think about. I appreciate all the efforts you're making on my behalf."

He waited till he heard the sound of Fowler leaving the mansion before calling Mozzie back.

"Are you going to take the offer?" Mozzie asked.

"If I thought it were legitimate, I'd be tempted. But I don't trust him. It doesn't make any sense. It has to be a trap. Until I understand more, I won't take the bait."

"I hate to rub it in, but I knew you were putting too much on the table when you made your confession to receive immunity. It's come back to bite you now."

Neal's confession to the FBI had been a sore point with Mozzie from the beginning. He begrudged every sliver of information Neal had to divulge. "That's just it. I didn't say anything about Geneva—nothing about the Leopard, Chantal, or André or the jobs I did with them in Geneva. I confessed to a few items I'd stolen in Europe—London, Milan, one in Paris—but I left out Geneva."

"In that case, how did the Assistant Director find out about Geneva?"

"That's what I want to know. The only person in the FBI that I've discussed Geneva with is Peter."

"He must have entered it in your record." He sighed. Neal could picture him shaking his head with disapproval. "This has to hurt. I know you felt you could trust him. But he can't fight his nature. Once a suit, always a suit."

"I can't believe Peter did this, but I've never met the Assistant Director. All I know is what Fowler said . . ." Neal's voice trailed off as he collected his thoughts. Fowler was dangling the promise of not interfering with Columbia in front of Neal while at the same time blackmailing him with the unspoken threat of ruining that future if he didn't quit. What had Peter's role been in this?

"Neal? You still there?"

"Sorry, Mozz, sorting out the next move. It's time for the raven on the street lamp."

**White Collar Division. November 18, 2004. Thursday morning.**

Peter was reviewing case files when he received a text from El: "Bank called. Need ur signature. Can u meet me bank lobby 11:30?"

More paperwork. El had applied for a bank loan for her new business, and every week it seemed like there was a new form to sign. They thought they'd signed the last one a week ago. Someone must have dredged up yet another. Fortunately Peter had no meetings on his schedule and the bank was a short walk from work. Peter looked out the window. Still raining … no matter. Taking a break from work might improve his mood. He hadn't heard anything more about Neal's case, and that was acting as a constant irritant.

Texting back that he'd be there, Peter decided to check in with Hughes before he left. What Hughes had to report was disquieting. If no new evidence surfaced, OPR would begin interviewing Neal's associates at Columbia next week in preparation for a preliminary hearing. It was possible that at that time they'd decide to drop the case against Neal but the damage to his reputation at Columbia would already have been done.

Peter felt obligated to let Neal know about the upcoming interviews, but would he conclude that was the final straw and bolt? From what El had said, he was already distancing himself from them. His cousin Henry had warned Peter what would happen if Neal felt he'd been betrayed by the FBI. Henry had predicted he'd go on a crime spree bigger than he'd ever been on and Peter would wind up having to arrest him. Was that nightmare scenario about to come true?

Peter headed for the bank, arriving with a few minutes to spare. The lobby was crowded with customers. It was now 11:35 and still no sign of El. His cell phone vibrated. Did she get held up in traffic? Reaching for his cell, he was startled to find a burner phone. What was going on? He hadn't put any phone in his coat pocket. His cell was in his pants pocket. "Who is this?"

It was Neal's voice on the other end. "Sorry for the subterfuge, but I had to make sure we weren't overheard."

"What are you talking about?" Peter said half-angrily. "Stop playing games, Neal. You're in enough trouble as it is."

"You don't think I know that? I assure you, this is no game. Fowler came to the loft this morning to make me an offer and we need to talk."

"Fowler came to you?"

"Yeah. I assume he's the one who's put a tail on me. He may have one on you, too. Can you meet me at June's this afternoon?"

"How about one o'clock?"

"I assume there's still no problem with you meeting with me?"

"Of course not." What did Fowler fill Neal's head with? Even without seeing his face, Peter could hear the note of strain in his voice. "I'll be there at one. The phone—Mozzie, right?"

"Yeah, he's a good friend."

"Promise me not to do anything until we've had a chance to talk. I don't know what Fowler said but don't let him get to you."

"I'm not. You be careful yourself. Don't call me on your cell and keep the burner phone in case I need to contact you again."

**Neal's loft. November 18, 2004. Thursday afternoon.**

"Fowler's offering to have the charges dropped if you quit within twenty-four hours?" Peter repeated in disbelief. Ever since Neal's call he'd been stewing over what kind of offer Fowler could possibly have made. Why would he have gone to Neal's place rather than having him brought in? It flew in the face of normal procedure. And to have no witnesses present . . . Fowler's actions reeked of duplicity.

When he arrived at the loft, Neal had gotten straight to the point. "That's right," Neal said calmly. "He told me the Assistant Director of OPR is making the offer."

"You're not thinking of accepting it, are you?"

"I may not have much of a choice. There are no other suspects. OPR has control of the case. You tell me—do you have much hope I'll be cleared?"

Peter rubbed the side of his neck. "Honestly at this point I don't know. We've been assembling documentation on your value as a consultant, but . . ." Peter didn't need to finish his sentence. He could tell from his expression that Neal understood how slim his chances were. "But here's the thing. You can't trust what Fowler said. No papers, no witnesses. This stinks to high heaven."

Neal set down his coffee and locked on him with his eyes. "I might have had more of a chance if the FBI didn't know about my safecracking days in Geneva."

Peter stared at him perplexed. "There's nothing about that in your files. Yes, we added that you knew the Leopard, but there was nothing specific about safecracking. Hell, I didn't even include that you knew him in Geneva. I left it as vague as possible. All Hughes knows is that you learned his identity in Europe."

"You sure about that? How else would Fowler have known? I didn't mention it during my confession. I thought the only person in the FBI who knows about it was you. I'm sorry, but I have to ask."

"I wouldn't have done that," Peter said, appalled that Neal would even consider it. "When you first told me about it after the Leopard died, I said that was all off the record. I meant it."

"I believe you," Neal said, "but how else Fowler could have found out about it?"

Peter didn't answer. He and Neal had discussed Chantal and Neal's years in Geneva back last September. That had been here in the loft. He hadn't taken notes and he was positive he hadn't put any of that information into Neal's file. How else could it have gotten there?

Neal got up and stood looking out the patio doors. The morning showers had developed into a steady rain, making large puddles on the terrace. Neal had fixed his eyes on the terrace with a strange expression on his face. "That's it," he exclaimed. "Fowler must have tapped your phone—"

"Hold on a minute," Peter objected. "Where did this come from?"

"Remember, we were joking about it on the phone last week. You were at home—some plumbing disaster—and I was giving you grief over not being able to break into Bolotnov's safe. You teased me about my safecracking days in Geneva. OPR must have bugged your phone."

Peter reacted without thinking. "That's impossible. They couldn't have had authorization."

"Then you tell me," Neal challenged.

Peter considered what Neal asserted. He didn't want to face the implications, but what other explanation was there? Someone had been in his home. No telling what else they'd done. Peter didn't normally pace, but this occasion warranted it. "They invaded my home. Bugged my phone. This has to stop." He couldn't believe OPR would do this. Listening in to his conversations with El . . . Prying into their personal lives . . . How would he explain it to her?

"I agree," Neal said quietly. Something in his tone was disturbing. Peter spun around to find Neal staring down at the floor. "I'm the reason this is happening to you. As long as it was only me being attacked, I could fight back, but not now. You and El shouldn't have to deal with this." Brushing his hair back, he looked up at Peter. "The longer I stay, the worse it will get for you."

Striding over to him, Peter grabbed him by the shoulders. "You're wrong. They're not using you to hurt me. I'm the one being used to hurt you. I won't stand for it, and neither should you."

Neal stared at him.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he urged. When Neal didn't answer, he pursued his advantage. "Look, I know your instinct is to run, but you can't. You're not alone—we're fighting this together."

"But I won't have you sacrifice your career over this," Neal warned.

"That's not gonna happen, partner. What we need to do first is—"

"—get you a cleaner," Neal finished for him. "I know a good one. He'll give you the family rate. You want him there tonight or tomorrow?"

"Can he start now? I'll call El then alert Hughes. He can call the Assistant Director and find out if there's any truth to what Fowler offered."

Neal shook his head. "Wait, let's think this through. We're both assuming the offer isn't genuine, right?"

Peter nodded.

"So what happens if the Assistant Director finds out? He confronts Fowler. Maybe he takes him off the case. But Fowler could insist I'm lying. I have no proof. June's surveillance camera will show he visited me, but I didn't record the conversation. Fowler could say he was here simply to check up on me. Best case scenario, Fowler's replaced with someone else, and we haven't learned anything. But what if we let it play out a few days longer? See how he reacts when I don't take him up on the offer?"

"That's a dangerous game," Peter warned, not liking what Neal proposed. "If Fowler or whoever he works for is desperate enough to have made the offer, there's no predicting to what extreme he'll go when you don't take him up on it."

"But if we alert the Assistant Director now, the earrings are still missing and I'm still the prime suspect. Fowler won't do till my twenty-four hours are up. We can afford to wait a little while longer."

Neal was right. Leaving Fowler in place would be their best chance of finding out what was actually going on. "All right," Peter agreed, "but you need to know, OPR will start interviewing your associates at Columbia next week. Hughes told me just before you called me at the bank. If we alert OPR about what Fowler has done, we may be able to persuade them to hold off."

Neal rested his chin on his hands as he considered. "Let's give it till Monday," he said. "If we don't know anything more by Monday, go ahead and tell Hughes to fill them in."

"In the meantime, I'll make a report to Hughes based on what Mozzie discovers."

Neal shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure about that. If Hughes knows, he'll want to talk with the Assistant Director, and we're not ready for that."

"Hughes isn't the enemy here," Peter reminded him. "I realize he hasn't won any points with you over the past few days, but believe me, he's been working to clear you. I have to let him know."

A couple of calls later and Mozzie was on his way to sweep the Burkes' house. Luckily El had been at home. Peter texted her on her cell, hoping it hadn't been tampered with too. Much to his astonishment, Peter realized that his mistrust of Mozzie was now far less than that of Fowler.

When Peter left the loft, he sat in his car for several minutes before driving off. That OPR could be engineering the frame-up went against all his beliefs. Was Fowler acting on his own or had he been bought? Trying to discover the truth would be risky and officially they couldn't investigate the case. Still there might be a way. Peter called Agent Tricia Wiese's personal cell with his burner phone.

He felt like he was crossing the Rubicon.

**Schermerhorn Hall, Columbia University. November 18, 2004. Thursday evening.**

"Giron put the evil eye on me when she quizzed me about my paper," Michael said as they left the seminar. "Smooth, Neal, how you were already so well prepared."

"Caught a break for once," Neal acknowledged. "I had some extra time this week. If she'd asked me last week, I would have been pilloried." Martine Giron's class on Egyptian art in the New Kingdom had just wrapped up and Michael and Neal were headed for the student lounge at Schermerhorn Hall. When they entered, they discovered Fiona and Richard had already grabbed a corner niche.

"Thanks for coming," Fiona said. "We've got a big auction coming up at Weatherby's and I won't have much free time over the next several days."

"When is it taking place?" Neal asked.

"This Saturday. Wretched timing I know. I'll have to miss your fencing match."

Neal shrugged. With everything else swirling around him the past few days, the match with Harvard had faded into insignificance.

"I'd like to finalize our program for Thanksgiving so we can focus on just those pieces during the Sunday session," Fiona said. "Too bad Keiko and Aidan can't join us but I'll let them know what we decide."

"About the program," Richard said, "Neal and I'd like to cancel 'Bound for Botany Bay.' We found a new piece to replace it with."

"There's no way I can talk you out of it?" Fiona asked, looking disappointed. "That piece is one of my favorites. The guitar duet you've worked up is beautiful and Neal, your singing is inspired. You've even managed to incorporate an Irish lilt. It gives such an emotional spin to the lyrics."

"We're sure," Richard said firmly before Neal could have a chance to speak. "This new piece is much more suitable for the type of event we're holding, and the clincher is there's a fantastic tambourine part for Michael."

"This is very late to be adding a new piece," Michael noted, looking nervous. "Will we have time to learn it?"

"Don't worry," Neal said. "It's a drinking song. Very easy to pick up. It's meant to be boisterous and rowdy. You can be a wild man with your tambourine."

"Drinking song, huh? I can handle that." Michael relaxed back into the sectional. "Drinking is something I don't need to practice."

After the meeting, Neal and Richard headed over to the gym for fencing practice. Aidan would meet them there. He'd texted Neal earlier in the day he had a surprise to show them. In fact, he'd skipped out on Fiona's meeting because he wanted to work on it. Both Richard and Aidan were taking the band of brothers concept much more to heart than Neal would have imagined possible. That business with the song … Neal hadn't thought it was worth canceling. Okay, the lyrics were a little depressing in view of his current situation, but he could have gone through with it. But Richard wouldn't hear of it.

This was not at all what he'd expected. Neal had been sure he'd be shunned by Richard and Aidan once they knew about his anklet. Instead their friendship had been strengthened.

"You're very quiet," Richard remarked.

"Just thinking. Tuesday night when I attended a workshop, I was obsessed someone would spot the anklet. Tonight with Fiona and Michael, I didn't even think about it."

"That's good, right? It means you're not so uptight about it."

"Yeah, I guess." Neal wasn't so sure. Was he already growing accustomed to being shackled? People lived with anklets for years. Restricted to their cages. He'd heard about wild animals that grew so used to being confined, they didn't want to leave. Neal made a vow to never let that happen to him.

**Neal's Loft. November 19, 2004. Friday afternoon.**

"Fascinating closets Mr. and Mrs. Suit have," Mozzie said. "I found an old shoebox filled with photos that was a treasure trove. El and I couldn't resist spreading them out on the bed as she told me about their first dates. The look on the suit's face when he walked in and found the two of us sitting on his bed was priceless!"

"I wish I could have been there," Neal said regretfully. Mozzie had returned to the loft after having spent the past day sweeping the Burkes' house for bugs and any other surveillance equipment.

"I do too. So does El. The cherry pie is from her. The takeout is from me." Mozzie had come back loaded with bags of food and started setting out the containers.

"Homemade pie? She shouldn't have gone to so much work." Mozzie had supplied them with a feast of tiger shrimp noodles and pork ribs from the Aloha Emporium. Neal had sent El home with some of guava blossom cake but he still had a few slices of it. He might be shackled but he couldn't complain at the rations.

"You need to let her," Mozzie said as he uncorked the wine. "She feels very badly about what's happening. Making the pie gave her something to do while I was cleaning. She's beginning to realize the extent to which the government's network of deceit and intrusion has spread into every aspect of our lives. When I return, I'll take over some of my books on the subject for her edification. I feel it's my duty to be her spiritual guide and lead her through her awakening."

Making a mental note to call El and extend his sympathies for what she was about to endure, Neal asked, "What were the results of the sweep?"

"The bug on their phone was standard government issue. There had also been bugs planted in their living room and dining room. I checked the suit's cell phone when he came home. It had been infected with a virus which allowed it be used for eavesdropping. I removed the virus but advised him to continue to restrict calls to us on the burner phone. Fortunately they hadn't infected El's yet. We decided to leave the bug in place on their home phone. It could prove handy. I've already started upgrading their security system. When I'm done, it will be close to being as good as yours."

Helping himself to more ribs, Mozzie added, "One other thing—I saw someone lurking around the corner from the mansion when I came back."

"Yeah, that's the OPR tail. They've been following me since Tuesday."

"I don't think so, unless they've really loosened their hiring requirements. It was Tramonte."

Neal froze, his chopsticks in mid-air. "Luigi Tramonte? What's he doing around my place?"

"Maybe he thinks you've hidden the earrings here and he wants to steal them back? Your twenty-four hours are up. I assume you didn't accept the offer."

"I'm not quitting now, Mozz. I want to expose whoever's doing this. When this started, I was scared about what would happen to my job. Now I'm just angry and want to counter-attack."

Mozzie looked at him inquisitively. "Interesting. I gather your talk with the suit went well. How are you coming on your rabbit holes?"

"Making progress. Digging some more. You've heard about Columbia's tunnels?"

"Of course. Whoever thought to endow Columbia with such an extensive labyrinth ripe to be exploited was a genius."

"I've been fascinated about them ever since I first heard about the network of tunnels underneath the campus," Neal confessed. "The oldest ones date back to the mental asylum that existed on the site in the 1800s before the land was sold to Columbia."

"Ah yes, the Bloomingdale Insane Asylum." Mozzie sighed nostalgically. "An elegant playground for the wealthy insane or perhaps more fittingly the insanely wealthy. Remind me to tell you some of the more intriguing tales from that period. I've conducted extensive research in its early history. It's as if I have a bond with many of those gentlemen. I've often wondered if I didn't share a common ancestry with some of them." Mozzie gazed dreamily off into space.

"I've been focusing more on the here and now," Neal said, laughing. "The legal tunnels are well documented, and I took them as my starting point. Then there are the steam tunnels, the old railroad tracks, the crumbling brick walls from the asylum era. Ever since I found the 'Signature Room' I was hooked. Hundreds of signatures, Mozz. And the graffiti, the tags, many of them in foreign languages. It's an underworld of artifacts and undiscovered warrens."

Mozzie was staring at Neal bug-eyed. "I've only accessed a few of them. Do you think we could—"

Neal continued without pausing. "And that of course led me to research the tunnels that are only rumors —faded memories of passages boarded up long ago or perhaps which never existed. Over the past twenty-four hours while you were at the Burkes' I conducted a mammoth exploration. The tunnels are much more extensive than I first imagined. And not only that, there are clues—cryptic tags and symbols—which serve as guideposts to what lies beyond. After hours of dropping down rusting grates, squeezing through crawl spaces and snaking under old steam pipes dripping with water, I found what I was seeking—one of the lost tunnels."

"Which one?"—Mozzie held his breath, his eyes glittering—"not the one under Broadway?"

"No, that one still eludes me. The one I found starts at the gym."

"Can you show it to me tonight?" he asked eagerly.

"Perhaps, but you're needed even more for another task." Neal paused dramatically. "It's time for you to meet the rest of my crew."

 

* * *

_Notes:  In Chapter 7: A Court Intrigue, the action moves on campus as Mozzie joins forces with the others and further tunnel exploration is conducted. Thanks for reading and your comments. It's great to hear there are other fans of the Three Musketeers! And many thanks as always to the awesome Penna Nomen for helping our musketeers. Her pen is definitely mightier than a sword._


	7. A Court Intrigue

**White Collar Division. November 19, 2004. Friday afternoon.**

"This is disturbing news." Hughes sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. Tapping with a pen on the paper in front of him, he reflected on what Peter had just told him.

On Friday, once Mozzie had finished sweeping his home, Peter asked to meet Hughes in his office. As he went over the revelations of the past day—the bugging of his house, Fowler's offer to Neal—Hughes's normal stone-faced appearance had taken on a noticeably grimmer aspect.

"Fowler claims he acted under the Assistant Director's orders?" Hughes asked.

"That's right, but you and I both know this couldn't have been sanctioned by him."

"I agree. When this first started, I found it difficult to believe there was any hidden agenda. Now the evidence is fast becoming irrefutable."

Peter wasn't about to argue with him. "I had Travis examine the bugs but I doubt anything incriminating will be found."

"The OPR Assistant Director has an impeccable record with over twenty-five years of service. I refuse to believe that he'd authorize the bugs. Was Caffrey able to record the conversation with Fowler?"

"No, unfortunately. A surveillance camera recorded him entering the mansion, but we don't have any other evidence, only Neal's testimony."

"So, there's no proof Fowler made the offer. I agree with Caffrey—if I go to the Assistant Director now, Fowler will deny it and very likely it will reduce our chances of finding out who's responsible. Having someone else assigned to the case at this point may not be all that helpful. What's your recommendation?"

"I'd like to have Agent Wiese look into Fowler. Since she's currently in Washington, D.C. and Fowler works out of that office, she may be able to discover something. My take on Fowler's offer is that it's a sign of desperation. Whoever is behind this realizes the evidence is too unsubstantial to hold, and they're trying to make Neal panic. That means they may make another mistake. Let's play it out a couple more days and see what happens." No need to tell Hughes he'd already contacted Tricia. When Peter had brought her up to speed on what had been happening, she suggested looking into Fowler's record even before he asked her.

Hughes nodded his assent. "Go ahead and contact Wiese, but keep it unofficial for now. How's Caffrey holding up?"

"He's keeping things under control, for now. He has his classes and art to work on. He'll give us a little time." Peter hoped he was being correct in that assertion. Neal still seemed too much like a caged animal. Peter suspected the anklet was sending him over the edge and wasn't convinced that he was thinking all that clearly.

After he left Hughes, Peter went to the lab for an update. Travis had finished his examination of the bugs. "As we suspected, they'd been wiped," he said, "but there was something useful to be gleaned. They're not the make we use in New York. I checked around. It's an advanced model and only the D.C. office is employing it."

"Well, at least that's something." Peter paused and, looking around to make sure no one from OPR was in earshot, added, "Jones and Diana are meeting me for drinks at Foley's Tavern after work. An off-site location seems best for what we plan to discuss. Care to join us?"

**Foley's Tavern. November 19, 2004. Friday evening.**

Foley's Tavern was a little over a block away from the Federal Building. A casual and comfortable hole in the wall, it was the favorite bar of the White Collar team. Booths lined the side walls for a measure of privacy. Giant TV screens by the bar were a recent addition.

The others had arrived before Peter and already had their drinks. Peter took his beer over to the booth in the back they'd selected and slid in next to Travis. It didn't take long to fill them in on the news. Helping himself to a pretzel, Peter concluded, "So that's where we stand. You're all advised to check your own phones for bugs. Hughes is making discreet inquiries to see if there's any official record of authorized activity at my home, and Tricia is researching Fowler in D.C. For the moment I left the bug on my landline active. It may yet prove useful."

Diana took a sip of her martini. "Since Caffrey didn't take him up on the offer, Fowler could become desperate enough to try something even more reckless. Should we start monitoring Fowler's movements?"

"Too risky," objected Jones. "If we start butting heads with OPR, that won't help anyone, including Caffrey."

"I have to agree," Peter said reluctantly. "As much as I'd like to have him tailed, if Fowler found out, it'd be even harder for us to discover what he's up to. Fowler's no slouch. He's a veteran of over twenty years with the Bureau."

"There's no harm in us visiting Neal, is there?" Travis asked casually.

"On the contrary," Peter said, liking the idea, "we should view it our sworn duty to keep close to him, make sure he keeps out of trouble … and that others aren't bringing trouble to him."

"Idle hands . . . " said Diana. "I'll give him the benefit of my advice this weekend."

"I've already made plans to be at his fencing match with Harvard tomorrow morning," Jones said. "I'm taking my nephew Ethan. He's seven and a Jedi wannabe. He's never seen live fencing and Caffrey had suggested he come. It will be the first time for either of us to visit the Columbia campus."

"I'll see you there," Travis added. "I also told Neal I was coming."

"That sounds much more interesting than the chores I'd lined up," Diana said. "Count me in. Travis, can I catch a ride with you? You're more familiar with the campus than I am."

"He'll have quite a booster club. I'll be there too," Peter said. His burner phone buzzed. "Hey, Neal, I'm at Foley's. Making plans for your match." As Peter listened to what Neal had to say, the others grew quiet. Everyone was waiting for him to explain what was going on. He wished he knew himself. With what had become his standard sign-off to not do anything stupid, Peter switched off the phone and told them, "Tramonte was spotted outside Neal's place this afternoon."

"You're kidding. Tramonte's casing June's place?" asked Diana incredulously. "Why would he be doing that?"

"Maybe he thinks Neal has the earrings and wants to steal them back," suggested Jones.

"But how would he know Neal was suspected of taking the earrings?" Travis challenged. "To my knowledge, no one outside the FBI knows about Neal's involvement unless Neal told them. Hardly likely."

Peter scanned the group, more than ever glad he had absolute confidence in them. "Tramonte had to have heard it from someone, and I can guarantee it wasn't Neal. From the beginning Neal and I've believed Tramonte may have been responsible for the theft. But if he'd stolen the earrings why would he hang around Neal's place? The only way this makes any sense at all is if Tramonte's acting under orders from someone. And I only have one name on my list."

**Prentis Hall, Columbia University. November 19, 2004. Friday evening.**

"I present to you … Athos. What he lacks in swordsmanship, he more than makes up for in subterfuge." As Neal introduced the others, Mozzie took off his hat with a theatrical flourish and made a deep bow.

Neal had arranged to meet with Richard and Aidan at Aidan's studio in Prentis Hall. Because of its location in a depressed area of West Harlem, the building had higher security than most of the other university halls. Even so, Neal was taking no chances. A wireless detection finder had become a standard item in his backpack these days.

It was amusing to watch their reaction to Mozzie. They were almost as curious about him as Mozzie was about them. Mozzie had insisted on wearing a long curly-haired wig and an extraordinary hat for the occasion. The brim was wide enough to achieve musketeer status and made it very difficult for Neal to keep a straight face whenever he looked at him.

Mozzie smiled benignly at Richard and Aidan. "Fellow _mousquetaires_ , this morning I spotted a ruffian scouting d'Artagnan's lodgings whom we believe to be an agent sent by Richelieu. In order to restore his honor, Neal may need to go off grid and naturally called on me as his trusted advisor in all matters to lend assistance. Aidan—or do you prefer your _nom de guerre_ of Aramis? I'm told you have an idea on how to broadcast a signal that would duplicate the signal emitted from his tracking anklet."

"That's right," Aidan said, tearing his eyes off Mozzie's wig. "I borrowed some equipment from where I work to obtain the signal parameters. I also brought along testing devices."

Aidan had already laid out his equipment on the worktable. Mozzie scrutinized them, rubbing his hands together. "I haven't seen these particular models before. They look state of the art. Permit me to ask, where do you work?"

"At a cybersecurity company."

"Oh really?" Mozzie's eyes lit up. "How convenient. And you're able to borrow equipment? We must talk at further length. I need your schedule. Do you like wine? Fortunately, I came supplied." Mozzie pulled out a bottle from a large gym bag he'd brought along. Turning to Richard, he asked, "And where do you work, may I ask?"

"Nothing as helpful, I'm afraid. I'm an analyst at a brokerage firm."

"Tut-tut, brokerage firms can also prove extremely useful. Perhaps not for the immediate task at hand, but I've been contemplating a small but extremely lucrative transactions—"

"Athos … " Neal warned in a low voice, shaking his head.

Mozzie continued without missing a beat, "But we'll discuss that further at another time … What I propose for the moment is that after obtaining the parameters of d'Artagnan's tracker, we build a test device, using this anklet I procured." Mozzie pulled out of his bag a second tracking anklet, similar in make to Neal's.

Aidan moved closer to examine the anklet. "How were you able to acquire this?"

Mozzie shrugged. "This trinket? The merest sample of what I'm capable, mon ami." Mozzie pulled a stool over. "Okay, d'Artagnan, foot up."

Neal obligingly kept his foot on the stool while Aidan and Mozzie passed devices over it.

While they worked, Neal said to Richard, "It was a day off for me. I wound up spending most of it underground." Richard was nearly as keen on the tunnels as he was. Together they'd already explored all the main routes and some of the less accessible ones.

"Did you . . .?"

"Yep. Wanna check it out?"

Aidan looked up. "What are you two talking about?"

"Tunnels, Columbia's underground labyrinth. I discovered one of the rumored tunnels."

"You should have told me," Richard complained. "I would have taken the day off."

"I couldn't risk it. I was going through areas of high security and had to be careful not to trip any alarms. My goal was to make a systematic exploration and build a map. In the process I discovered the tunnel. The entrance I found is very difficult to access, but once I was in it, I found another way in that isn't as heavily guarded. The tunnel has significant potential as a pirates' cave but needs further investigation."

"Count me in," Richard said enthusiastically. "Did you bring the headlamps?"

"Already equipped," Neal said, nodding over to his backpack. "Along with pickaxes and a few other tools that may come in handy."

"Are you sure you don't want to wait?" Mozzie asked plaintively. "This should only take us a couple hours."

"We need to first check it out for safety before taking you there, Athos," Neal said. "We can't risk the most valuable member of our crew to unknown dangers."

"A wise precaution," Mozzie said, appearing mollified. "Those pools of stagnant water could harbor vicious bacteria going back to the nineteenth century. Check for bubonic plague and cholera in particular. Do you have mold detectors with you? Oh, and be sure to take face masks. And maybe blowtorches. They would likely be your most effective defense if you encounter a rat reservoir."

"Rat reservoir?" Richard asked, his eyes widening.

"Infestations of hundreds, perhaps thousands of rats, have been found recently in Harlem," Mozzie explained, warming up to his topic. "The warm, damp conditions in the tunnels provide ideal incubation for any number of diseases and malign influences. And then there are the apparitions and other denizens of subterranean regions. Noxious influences wh—"

Neal held up a hand. "Enough, Athos. Porthos and I'll be careful. Once we've checked it out and found the terminus, we'll take you and Aramis down."

As Neal and Richard left, Mozzie tossed out his final words, "Don't forget to hang garlic around your neck. Also, no harm in taking salt along to ward off any demons."

"What tree did you find him hiding behind?" Richard asked as they left the building.

**Blue Gym, Columbia University. November 20, 2004. Saturday morning.**

College club fencing matches weren't normally a big draw, but this one with archrival Harvard was an exception. Aidan had warned Neal to expect a crowd since Harvard had a large alumni fan base residing in New York City. Still it was a shock to see the fans already arriving and taking their seats in the chairs set up around the fencing strip. Standing room only for fencing?

Neal had arrived early to dress and prepare his gear. The shin guards he was wearing combined with Mozzie's custom socks made it virtually impossible to detect his anklet. The socks provided enough padding around the anklet so that its outline wasn't visible. Getting used to the feel had taken a little time, but Neal had been practicing with his gear all week and by now barely noticed them.

When he saw Jones and Ethan arrive in the gym, Neal waved them over. They must have already gone shopping because Ethan was proudly sporting a Columbia blue fencing t-shirt. Jones was wearing a crimson Harvard Law t-shirt. Watching them approach hand in hand, Neal couldn't resist a smile at the tiny slip of a boy with Jones. Ethan was wide-eyed with excitement and skipping along to Jones's broad strides.

Neal crouched to shake Ethan's hand and thank him for coming.

The little boy looked awe-struck. Taking in his white fencing clothes and the face mask Neal was holding, he asked in a hushed voice, "Are you a stormtrooper?"

Guffawing, Jones said, "Nah, he's on our side, kiddo. He's one of the good guys!"

"Clever of you to recognize our disguise," Neal said admiringly, "but these outfits alone won't ward off Darth Vader. We'll use our blades for that. Everyone knows the Harvard fencers are minions for the Evil Empire."

"Now, wait a minute. Ethan, don't listen to him," Jones said, putting his hands over Ethan's ears. "It's a good thing you have your names on the back of your jackets or we wouldn't know which stormtrooper to cheer on."

Travis and Diana entered the gym and joined them. "Looking cool, Caffrey." Diana said. "Peter will be here shortly. We saw him in the garage. He was trying to find a parking space."

Neal hadn't known Diana was coming too. This was becoming quite a reunion. "I didn't realize all of White Collar would be here. I would have set up a reserved seating area."

"Don't let it go to your head, but the bullpen has been deadly dull without you there," Diana said. "I'm counting on you to liven up my weekend."

Neal hadn't seen the others since Tuesday and despite Peter's reassurance had wondered whether they had crossed him off as a criminal. It was touching to see this display of support.

"Can I see your sword?" Ethan asked.

"Sure, actually I have three: foil, épée, and sabre." Neal got out an épée from the rack. "See the wires running down the blade? They send a signal when I land a touch. You'll hear a sound and a green light comes on."

"Will you compete with all three swords?" Travis asked.

"Yes, our club's a little short of members, and all of us are competing in multiple bouts."

Aidan and Richard came over and Neal made the introductions. "Aidan's our team captain. Richard's a fencer-in-training. He just started this week so won't compete. Aidan, could you explain how the competition works? There's something I need to get from the back."

When he got to the locker room, Neal retrieved a blue foam fencing sword he'd bought for Ethan. On the way back, he checked out the incoming spectators to see if Peter had arrived. No sign of Peter, but who was that hanging around in the back?

Neal quickly ducked behind a door, his heart racing. What was Tramonte doing here? He hadn't come to watch the fencing, that was certain. Running through the possibilities, Neal stopped at one particularly troubling reason. Peering through the slit in the door, he saw Tramonte disappear down a side corridor leading to another section of the gym, adding weight to his suspicions. Good thing they'd made contingency plans. This was a call to action for the musketeers.

When Neal got back to the others, the competition was about to begin. Ethan saw him coming with the sword and ran up to greet him. "Is that your sword?" he asked, reaching for it.

Ignoring Diana's snicker, Neal said gravely, "No, this is a special sword designed just for you."

"And in Columbia blue, no less," Jones said, nodding his approval. "Nice touch, Caffrey. Here, Ethan, you better let me take charge of that. We need to take our seats."

Ethan, it was plain, had other ideas, and as they walked to the gallery Neal could see him swinging it wildly.

Aidan walked up. "Maybe you should have waited till after the competition to give it to him?"

Neal quickly turned serious. "Where's Richard? We need to talk."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

_Jeez, who would have thought it would have been that tough to find a parking space on a Saturday morning? I'm going to be late for the match._ Peter charged through the corridors of the gym like he was hot on the trail a bank robber. Fortunately, despite his fears, he arrived before the match had started.

The fencers were clustered at opposite ends of the competition strip, talking among themselves and their coaches. He saw Neal standing with Aidan and Richard, deep in conversation. Neal hadn't appeared to notice his arrival. Peter was glad he'd met Aidan and Richard on Family Day so he knew who they were.

Catching sight of Jones, Diana, and Travis in the spectator gallery, Peter waved back. Luckily, they'd saved him a seat. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Travis, you must have gotten the last parking place. I had to find another garage." Looking over at Ethan, he added, "Who's this fierce swordsman? Aren't you supposed to be over with the teams?"

Ethan had been brandishing his sword with ferocious determination, but became bashful when Peter spoke to him and clung to Jones.

Jones made the introductions. "Caffrey gave Ethan the sword before you arrived. He instantly achieved hero status."

Peter gave Ethan a knowing grin, "Neal's pretty cool, isn't he?"

Ethan nodded. Putting his hand to his mouth, he added in a loud whisper, "He's one of the good stormtroopers. Neal told me Harvard's the bad stormtroopers. They're the Evil Empire!"

Chuckling, Jones said, "I heard that, Ethan. Just remember we're not all evil at Harvard. Here, you better let me take charge of your sword during the match. I wouldn't want you to give Columbia an unfair advantage."

Peter saw Neal scanning their group and waved to him. Neal gave him a questioning look and jerked his head to the right. Peter turned to see what he was pointing at. Garrett Fowler? At a fencing match? And he wasn't alone. Two other OPR agents were with him as well. They'd all taken their seats in the back of the gallery.

Diana noticed them too. "What are they doing here, boss?" she asked worriedly.

"Nothing good," Peter muttered. He got up and strode over to where Fowler was sitting. "What's this about? Are you a fencing fan?"

"We got a tip that Caffrey may be hiding the earrings in the gym locker," Fowler said. "We have to check it out."

Peter could feel his anger rising and fought to keep it under control. "I don't expect you have a warrant?"

Fowler, disgruntled, shook his head.

Peter wasn't sure reasoning with him would do any good but had to try. "Let him fence. He's not going anywhere. After the match I'll go with you, all right?"

Surprisingly Fowler agreed without making it an issue. "Caffrey can fence as long as he remains in view. If he leaves the competition area at any time, we move in immediately. You can come with us, but no interference, Burke. OPR's in charge."

When he returned to his seat, Peter told Travis and Diana what Fowler had said. He was already regretting that they'd held off reporting Fowler to OPR. As it was, Fowler was still the lead investigator and Peter's options were limited. At least Fowler had agreed to hold off till after the competition. And that was surprising in itself. Why hadn't he gone ahead? What game was he playing?

Peter watched Neal and the other members of his team going over their last-minute strategy as he prepared for his own upcoming bout with Fowler. His accusation that Neal was hiding the earrings in his locker was nonsense. Even if Neal had stolen them, he wouldn't have hidden them in such an obvious place. But for the moment, aside from monitoring Fowler's movements, there was nothing anyone could do till after the match.

Neal had now taken his place on the fencing strip. Peter had never seen him fence before, and he forced himself to not think about what would happen afterwards but concentrate only on the match. Neal had to do the same and the least he could was lend his moral support.

Travis got out a video camera and made it ready. "Badillo wanted to come, but he had to work," Travis explained. "I told him I'd take videos of Neal's bouts."

The order for fencing was first épée, followed by foil, and then sabre. It was fascinating to see how electronic the competition was. "What are they doing now?" Peter asked Travis who was sitting next to him.

"The fencers are plugging in their body wires. Aidan showed us how the blades themselves are wired and send a signal when a touch is landed."

The events moved very quickly. Practice strips had been set up in a separate area where fencers could warm up between bouts. Columbia and Harvard were neck and neck after the épée and foil competitions. Neal and Aidan had done well, but some of the other members of their club were not as strong.

Jones leaned over to Peter. "Aidan told me that the final sabre bout is what everyone is particularly excited to see. Neal will be fencing a Harvard grad student who was ranked among the top in the country when he fenced collegiately. Neal thinks he has a slim chance."

The sabre competition would start in a few minutes. Peter saw Neal on the practice strip with Richard. Why was he warming up with Richard? Richard was a beginner and certainly presented no challenge. Even Peter could tell he was simply parrying Neal's thrusts and awkwardly at that. Did Neal not want to give any hints of what his plans were to the opposing team? Peter looked around for Aidan but couldn't find him.

When Neal and the Harvard fencer stepped onto the fencing strip, maybe it was his imagination but the spectators seemed to lean forward even more, their anticipation crackling with electricity as if they were wired too. The Harvard fencer was taller and heavier than Neal. He looked formidable. But fencing's a sport more of agility than strength. As the players saluted each other before putting on their masks, Peter was struck by the intensity of Neal's gaze. Gone was the cocky, smart-aleck charmer. Neal had transformed into someone dangerous.

The bout was a close one with points seesawing back and forth, as the fencers lunged at each other up and down the strip. They moved so fast, touches were scored before Peter was even aware one had landed. The audience appeared to be familiar with how fencing bouts were conducted, bursting out in cheers and applause every time a touch was landed only to fall back into hushed silence with the next lunge. Peter found himself on the edge of the seat as he focused on the rapid lunging, but it was frustrating to follow. Half the time he couldn't tell who'd made the touch till the score was updated on the electronic display.

When the closing bell sounded, the score was 15-13, with Neal coming out on top. When he scored the final touch, the Columbia crowd went wild, and Peter with the other White Collar team members rose to their feet cheering along with everyone else. Flushed and sweaty, Neal took off his mask and broke out in a wide smile as he shook hands with his opponent and then bowed to the crowd. The ecstatic Columbia fencers jubilantly rushed him and spectators poured out of their seats to congratulate all the players. Ethan was jumping up and down on his seat to go see Neal.

But Peter transferred his gaze to Fowler. He and his agents had also risen and were heading toward Neal. Exchanging quick nods, Peter along with Travis and Diana, intercepted them before they could reach him.

Giving Peter a cheeky smile which seemed expressly designed to aggravate him, Fowler said, "Caffrey had his moment. We let him fence. But it ends now. Sorry, Burke, looks like your boy's guilty after all."

"Give him a little time with his team," Peter urged. "Then we'll conduct the investigation jointly. But unless something's found, there no need to make a big production out of this. Neal hasn't been charged with any crime and is innocent in the eyes of the law." He looked over at Neal who was watching them, his face grown tense, and gave him a quick nod.

"Five minutes, but then no more stalling," Fowler said. "If he doesn't let us examine his locker, you know what the consequences will be."

 

* * *

_Notes: If you'd like to see what a real sabre bout is like, I've pinned a video as well as other visuals to The Queen's Jewels' board of our Pinterest Caffrey Conversation site. Please join me next week for Chapter 8: Plan of Campaign when Fowler confronts Neal and the plan of the musketeers is revealed._


	8. Plan of Campaign

**Blue Gym, Columbia University. November 20, 2004. Saturday morning.**

The fencing competition was over. Neal and his team had emerged victorious and fans on both sides were congratulating the teams. But Peter was certain that even as Neal reveled in his victory, he was preparing himself to face an even more dangerous opponent—Fowler.

At the end of the competition, Travis and Diana had joined Peter in confronting Fowler. They'd already agreed that Jones should go ahead and take Ethan over to see Neal and Aidan. Peter hoped they'd be able to delay Fowler long enough that Ethan could speak with Neal before they moved in. They'd managed to persuade Fowler to hold off for a few minutes, but that grace period was now over.

As Fowler with the other OPR agents in tow closed in on Neal, Peter along with Diana and Travis quickly stepped in front and arrived first. Neal, watching them approach, nodded to Aidan.

Aidan took Ethan by the hand. "How about you and I going over to the practice area?" he suggested. "I could show you how to line up and hold your sword." He led Ethan and Jones to the practice strip several yards away.

Fowler walked up to Neal. "Any objection to showing us your locker?"

"None at all," Neal said nonchalantly. "Diana, you better not come in. Guys are changing. You'll cause an uproar."

Diana laughed. "Whatever, Caffrey," and went over to join Jones and Ethan.

When they entered the locker room, Neal walked over to the coach and had a short conversation. The coach nodded, giving Neal a brief pat on the back. Returning to the others, Neal led them to his locker and opened it. He stood to the side with Peter and Travis, as Fowler and his agents emptied the locker, searched every item, and checked the walls of the locker for hidden compartments. As Peter knew would be the case, there were no earrings to be found.

Neal gave a tired shrug at the end of the search. He didn't appear worried. "Maybe you'll believe me next time."

"We need to search you too," Fowler said.

"I expected as much. I'd already discussed it with the coach. We can use his office."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Satisfied now?" Neal said with more than a hint of defiance and exasperation in his voice.

Fowler had found nothing in his clothes and acknowledged with a sour look on his face. "Yeah, you're free to go, Caffrey."

"I'm outta here," Neal said, preparing to exit.

"Could you wait for me outside?" Peter asked. "I'll give you a ride home. I'd like a few words with Fowler first."

Agreeing, Neal left the office with Travis. The other OPR agents also departed.

Once they'd all left, Peter cornered Fowler. "What was this charade about?"

"It was a legitimate tip. Had to be checked out." Fowler shrugged his shoulders. "Guess it was wrong."

"You got that right." Peter exhaled slowly, holding his temper in check. "This was harassment, and I plan to file a formal complaint."

Fowler gave his parting shot as he opened the door. "Won't get you anywhere. You know we have wide latitude to conduct the investigation at our own discretion. Face it, Caffrey's guilty. The sooner you accept it, the better it will be for you."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal was already strategizing his next move as he and Travis walked back to the gym. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he almost didn't catch Travis's murmur. "You know my offer to help still stands. Is there anything I can do?"

Neal glanced over at him. "You're serious?"

"Completely." Travis's expression was as bland as if he'd offered to carry Neal's fencing gear, but he had to know what meaning Neal would attach to his words. Travis's technical expertise would be invaluable for the con Neal was devising, but he hadn't considered approaching Travis about it. Now he was volunteering on his own.

But Neal wasn't about to take him up on it unless he could provide a reasonable cover. He'd already stressed enough about Peter risking his career because of him. He wouldn't add Travis to the list.

They continued walking down the corridor. As they entered the gym, Neal turned to him. "Aidan and I've been experimenting with computer music for a video installation he's working on. There's a tricky sound effect Aidan's trying to achieve we could use your help on. Would you like to join us tonight? Prentis Hall, say seven o'clock? The hall will be locked, but give me a call when you show up and I'll let you in."

"I'll be there," he promised.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter returned to the gym, he found Neal on the practice strip with Ethan. Neal had acquired a foam sword for himself and was on his knees fencing with him. He looked relaxed and happy like Fowler hadn't even been there. Aidan was coaching Ethan, giving loud stage whispers on how to take Neal down. The others were standing alongside, cheering Ethan on and heckling Neal unmercifully. Ethan lunged wildly at Neal who collapsed melodramatically to the floor, moaning, "You got me!"

Chuckling, Peter walked over to speak with Jones, Travis and Diana. "How'd it go with Fowler?" Jones asked in a low voice as he continued to watch Ethan.

"It didn't. He's working an agenda and I don't know what it is. But that doesn't mean I'll let him get away with this. First step, I'm calling Hughes to lodge a formal complaint for harassment. Then, this afternoon I'm going back to the Bureau. Anyone who has nothing better to do on their Saturday may want to stop by."

"I was coming in anyway," Travis remarked. "Got a new toy in the lab."

"My plans freed up for the day," Diana said. "Christie and I were going shopping but she has to work this afternoon. If I went home, I'd just have chores staring me in the face."

"I'd promised to give Ethan a tour of the campus, but afterwards I'll meet you back at the office," Jones added.

"Thanks, everyone," said Peter, grateful for their support. "After I've had a chance to talk with Neal, I may have more news. Let's meet around two at the office."

Neal was approaching them. With a flourish he presented his sword to Jones. "I relinquish my sword to you, Sir Clinton. You'll need this for future battles."

"When's your next competition?" Jones asked.

"In two weeks, against Yale."

"We'll be there." Turning to Ethan he added in a loud whisper, "They're the real Evil Empire."

As everyone dispersed, Peter asked Neal, "Ready to go home?"

"Yeah. Let's do it."

"Would you like to take a shower first? I can wait."

"Thanks but I shower at home these days," Neal said with a nod toward his ankle.

"Oh, right," Peter said quickly, cursing himself for not realizing that Neal wouldn't want his teammates to see the tracking anklet. "I'd forgotten you had it on. No one could tell you're wearing it."

"I have a good tailor." Neal must have noticed his discomfiture as he added, "It's okay, Peter. Won't be for much longer, right?"

"Right," Peter assured him, hoping that was true.

Neal and Peter exited the gym and walked through the campus to the parking garage. The cold air outside was bracing and helped cool down Peter's temper which was still smoldering from Fowler's actions. "What happened with Fowler . . . Neal, I'm sorry."

Neal shrugged. "Not your fault."

Peter was pleasantly surprised at how well he was taking it. He didn't seem as upset as he would have thought. "Did it cause any problems with your coach?"

"No, I explained it away. He may have gotten the idea you were conducting a mock search as a training exercise for a couple of probies."

Peter nodded in approval. "A reasonable assumption. When I pressed Fowler about it, he claimed he'd received a tip the earrings were in your locker. Wouldn't give me any details. Anything you can add?"

"Here's one—Tramonte was there."

Peter stopped short. "What? Tramonte at the gym? When did you see him?"

"Just before the competition. I spotted him when I went back to my locker to get Ethan's sword. I didn't have a chance to tell anyone. Ethan was there, wanting to play with the sword. You hadn't arrived."

Peter's knee-jerk reaction was to scan the people walking by. "Is he following you?"

"I don't think he tailed me to Columbia. I would have known."

Tramonte at the gym at the same time as Fowler—the pieces were falling together. Now Fowler's "tip" made sense. Growing increasingly uneasy about what he might hear, Peter said, "Fowler seemed very sure he'd find those earrings in your locker. Care to speculate on why he thought that?"

Neal didn't answer him immediately, but let his eyes wander over to the students walking through the quad. "Here's a hypothetical scenario. Assume for a moment that Tramonte had stolen the earrings from the FBI vault with Fowler's support. Then suppose that Fowler was unhappy with a certain person's reluctance to quit the FBI. Hypothetically, it's conceivable that Fowler might try to plant the earrings to frame him. Under those circumstances he could have ordered Tramonte to stash the earrings in the victim's locker during a sporting match."

"And in this hypothetical world, the intended victim might have been astute enough to figure out what was happening and had removed the earrings."

Neal shrugged. "Theoretically possible or something may have occurred to stop Tramonte from carrying out the plan."

The agent in Peter couldn't help asking, "Do you have the earrings, Neal?"

Neal slapped on that wide-eyed look of phony bewilderment that Peter found so annoying. "This was all hypothetical, Peter. I don't have the earrings. I was searched, remember?"

"Did you take them? Did Mozzie take them?"

Neal didn't answer, simply rolled his eyes and shook his head in frustration. He kept his eyes on the passersby, looking everywhere but at Peter.

They walked on in silence while Peter stewed over what to do next. Obviously, Neal knew more than he was telling but appeared determined to keep him in the dark. Had he discovered the earrings and somehow managed to remove them before his locker was searched? But Neal hadn't left the competition area. Peter hadn't seen Mozzie at the gym, but that didn't mean anything. If Mozzie had taken them, they might never be recovered. Peter groaned inwardly as his mind went from one dark outcome to the next. Granted, if the earrings had been found in Neal's locker, the circumstantial evidence against him would have been overwhelming. But if he now possessed them, his troubles had skyrocketed. Not only was he facing the threat of prison, but an increasingly desperate Fowler acting in league with a possibly enraged Tramonte, a suspected killer.

Peter glanced over at Neal, intending to question him more, but his clenched jaw told him he'd get nowhere. In his jeans and hoodie, hair still disheveled from fencing, Neal looked more like a typical undergrad than somebody facing imminent incarceration. His attitude was so aggravating. Was he planning to take out Fowler with his sabre? They'd been walking briskly but that thought caused Peter to stop dead in his tracks and let out a loud exhale.

Neal shot him a look of surprise. "What's wrong?"

"Me," Peter groaned. "We should be celebrating your fencing victory. Instead, I'm . . ."

"Interrogating me?" Neal raised an eyebrow.

Peter winced. "Yeah, sorry about that. I haven't even taken the time to tell you how proud I was to watch you fence."

Neal dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. "Forget it. It doesn't matter."

"It does to me," Peter insisted. "Hey, the student center is right here. Let's stop for lunch. Then we'll celebrate it properly with El, once you're . . . you know."

"Off my ball and chain?" Neal supplied, blinking his eyes innocently.

Peter mentally kicked himself. No matter what he said, he wound up stepping in it. "I hereby declare a timeout. You have to be starving. At least let me buy you lunch."

Cafe 212, located in the student center, was quiet when they arrived. It was late for lunch and on a Saturday, there weren't many around. Peter kept to his word and maintained a steady stream of chatter about the competition while they ordered sandwiches. At first he was doing all the talking but Neal gradually unbent and by the time they'd grabbed a table he was expounding on a detailed comparison of foil versus sabre fencing which was miles over Peter's head.

Over coffee and cheesecake, Peter ventured once more into the brink, choosing his words carefully. "You know I was thinking about your two scenarios, and it sounds much more likely to me that Tramonte intended to plant the earrings, but was unable to do so. Maybe he saw you. If anyone asks, that's the case I'll make. There were a lot of people in the locker room, weren't there?"

"Must have been. Of course, I wouldn't know since I was with my team."

"So now we're faced with the situation that Fowler may believe Tramonte decided to keep the earrings for himself. What do you think happens next?"

"Fowler will want to confront Tramonte if he hasn't already."

"And Tramonte? In the hypothetical scenarios you outlined, won't he attempt to plant the earrings again or worse, think the victim somehow hid the earrings and be out for revenge? Here's a thought … he may tell Fowler he'd placed the earrings in the locker to cover up the fact he'd held onto them. In all these scenarios, the hypothetical victim is now in very real, non-hypothetical danger, having just painted a large bullseye on his chest." Peter looked pointedly at Neal. Were his words sinking in?

"Believe me, the thought has crossed the victim's mind, Peter," Neal said, "but you'll just have to trust me on this. There's no point in asking me questions which you know I won't answer, and you know why."

Peter glared at Neal who stared right back at him for a long minute. "I don't like it," Peter finally said.

"I'm not saying you should like it. I don't either. I didn't ask for this and neither did you, but here we are."

"Can I at least grumble?"

Neal relaxed into a chuckle. "Yeah, do that for both of us."

As they left the cafe, Peter added, "I'm going to call for extra security around June's house."

"There may not be a need. I'll pack some stuff and move to my studio. I'm not the first to camp out there and it's too risky for June if I stay in her home."

"Let me work on that. I'll have no problem explaining the need for heightened security, and after Fowler's actions this morning, I can make a case for why non-OPR agents should be involved."

**Somewhere on the Columbia Campus. November 20, 2004. Saturday afternoon.**

In the early afternoon, a furtive shadow darted behind a door in the basement of Low Library. Clad in the blue nylon jacket of a university maintenance worker and wearing a dark ball cap, he rapidly unlocked a utility service door and slipped inside. Threading his way through the machinery, his ghostlike presence was perceived by no one. After sneaking through several narrow corridors, the last of which was a crawl space underneath a large steam pipe, he silently dropped down into the depths of the tunnels.

Once in the tunnel, he took out a face mask from his tool kit and slipped it on. The blackness of the tunnel was almost absolute. He reached in his pocket for a headlamp and placed it on his head. The bulb had been modified to emit the barest of dim glows. It cast soft shadows on the slime-encrusted brick walls. The silence of the tunnel was broken only by the soft hissing of steam and the occasional drip, drip of condensation from the steam pipes. After a distance of perhaps a hundred yards a soft scurrying sound of tiny paws alerted him to the presence of another. He flattened himself against a wall, his finger on the trigger of a miniature blowtorch.

The scurrying sound grew quieter and receded into the distance. He proceeded. After ten minutes, he rounded a bend and wedged into himself into what appeared to be a nonexistent crawlspace. Reaching once more into his bag, he pulled out a necklace of garlic cloves and hung it around his neck and put a salt shaker in his pocket. With a final pat of his pocket to check that the salt shaker was still there, he dropped into the dark hole in front of him.

**Neal's Loft. November 20, 2004. Saturday afternoon.**

Neal and Peter didn't talk much on the ride back to June's. Neal assumed Peter was engaged in a duel between Peter the FBI agent and Peter the surrogate dad with neither one very happy with Neal right now. Maybe he shouldn't have told Peter as much as he had, but Peter needed to know the earrings were back in play. Surely Peter realized that if he told him anything more, he'd not only be incriminating himself but also making Peter an accessory. As it was, Peter's distraction had given Neal the opportunity to refine his own plans. It was so ironic. Peter thought that Neal was upset by what happened during the fencing match. Wrong. This was a gift. Tramonte was about to be hoisted by his own petard.

Mozzie was waiting for Neal when he returned to his loft. Shoving his gym bag under the table, Neal asked him, "Any trouble finding the earrings, Mozzie?"

"No, they were right where you said they'd be. Richard's an apt apprentice. I salute the both of you," Mozzie said, touching his hand to his forehead.

Neal took a seat at the table. "Did you sign your name to the cache? The Columbia tradition needs to be maintained."

"Of course. Athos is now alongside Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, right where he belongs. I wonder if those signatures will ever be discovered."

"Behind a cinder block in a boarded up tunnel which is not included on any maps and only a handful have heard of its rumored existence? It could be centuries."

"A shame no one will be able to add our exploit to the other legendary tunnel hacks. You sure you don't want to store the earrings here?"

"No, too much chance OPR will return to search the place."

"When you called me, you didn't have time to fill me in on the details. How'd you manage to pull it off?"

"I saw Tramonte at the gym before the competition started. When I ran through the possible scenarios, the concern that he was there was to plant something was the most troubling. There was nothing to steal, and I couldn't imagine him trying to harm me with all the people around. When I spotted Fowler in the gallery, I figured they were working together to frame me. Fortunately I'd already prepared a rabbit hole. Last Wednesday when I told Richard and Aidan about the anklet, they were keen to discuss various hacks we might pull. Switching places with Aidan was one of them. We're the same height and build so it made sense."

Mozzie leaned back in his chair with a puzzled look on his face. "You mean you didn't simply have Richard remove the earrings? Why not?"

Neal shook his head impatiently. "Couldn't risk it. First of all, I wasn't sure the earrings would already be in my locker. I waited as long as I could, but Tramonte might have been planning to stash them during my final match. If the earrings hadn't been there, we were prepared to have Richard alert Peter about what we thought was going on and ask him to monitor the locker room. And if the earrings had been there, Tramonte could have been watching, or Fowler might have stationed an OPR agent in the locker room. I could have improvised, but it was far too dangerous for Richard to attempt it. I needed to be the one to take the risk."

"But Fowler and his fellow FBI goons must have been keeping close surveillance of you throughout the competition. How were you able to sneak away?"

Mozzie's question went to the heart of the con. "Aidan had experimented with invisible inks triggered by an ultraviolet wand when he was an undergrad at MIT."

Mozzie looked dubious. "I'm familiar with that technique. But once the name was revealed, how were you able to switch it back? That hasn't been done."

"It has now," Neal said with a grin. "Aidan has been planning to use the technique for a video, so he was already prepared with a solution. He's developed a wand that not only can make ink appear but also vanish. It looks like a large ballpoint pen so doesn't raise any warning flags. But here's the clincher . . ." Neal made a dramatic pause, savoring Mozzie's rapt attention. "By using different wavelengths in the ultraviolet spectrum, he's able to manipulate multiple inks at the same time. In other words, he can make one text replace another by simply passing a pen over it."

"That's genius!" Mozzie exclaimed. "You do realize the potential applications we could make of this. I need to make a list." Mozzie pulled out a small notepad and muttered as he scribbled down, "Gold vault at the Federal Reserve Ba—"

"Sorry, Mozz, no deal." Neal reached over and stopped his hand. "What happened today was a one-shot, a college hack that's not going any further."

Unwilling to give up, Mozzie pleaded, "Shouldn't I at least present the option to Aidan? Let him have a say?"

"No. Do you want to hear the rest or not?"

Mozzie held up his hands in defeat. "You may continue."

"Last Thursday before fencing practice, Aidan took blank jackets and wrote both our names on each of them. When Richard and I joined him at practice, he demonstrated how passing the pen over our names made one name replace the other. We'd practiced on Thursday and it worked perfectly.

"Right before the competition started, we huddled and worked up a plan. With Fowler there, I knew I couldn't be seen to leave the floor so Aidan and I switched names before the last competition—the sabre one. With our masks on, no one could tell us apart. While he warmed up with Richard, I went back to my locker and found the earrings. After I called you, I returned to the gym. We passed the ultraviolet pen over each other's names, and I was ready to compete. Immediately after the bout, Richard came up to congratulate me and I slipped him the earrings. At that point all the attention was on me. Richard could safely slip away and hide them in the tunnel for me."

"Smooth," Mozzie said approvingly. "I hadn't considered what a fertile proving ground the college hack is for our profession—"

"Don't start getting ideas," Neal warned.

"But the tunnels, such potential." Mozzie sighed. "I was thinking of setting up a safe room in one of them. Perhaps Friday. Its current location is a little too obvious." He cocked a brow. "You know I could have excellent reproductions of the earrings prepared. No one would know. The earrings would make an excellent fund for a rainy day."

"Mozzie, stop," Neal said, getting frustrated. "We already discussed this. The original ones have to be used."

"It's much riskier."

"I know that. We'll just have to make it work."

"All right," Mozzie said, abandoning what Neal hoped was his last attempt to change Neal's mind. "We have the earrings, but what's going to be the honey?"

"I've been thinking about that. We need something that Tramonte will be so greedy to have, he won't hesitate. How about the Marie Antoinette Blue Diamond that's on exhibit now at Regnier's?"

"Perfect. Tramonte has a ready buyer. He knows Bolotnov will pay top dollar for it. But will you have time to steal it?"

"I'm not going to steal it. We're going to make a fake." Neal went over his laptop and pulled up a photo of the diamond. "5.64 carats; blue heart-shaped diamond. Do you think you could have a stone made in 48 hours?"

Mozzie studied the photo and winced.

"It doesn't have to stand up to detailed scrutiny, Mozz," Neal added nervously. "If this works out as it should, there will only be time for a brief inspection."

"I know of someone who can do it. It will be tight, but he owes me. Can you prepare the mount in that amount of time?"

"I can use the metal shop at Prentis."

"Where will you obtain the metal to make it? You'll have to use gold. Tramonte would be able to tell the difference."

Going over to the kitchen, Neal reached into a cabinet and pulled out a can of soup. Pressing the top edge with one hand, he gently tapped the bottom which dropped out to reveal a hidden compartment. He extracted a ring from inside and handed it to Mozzie.

Mozzie held it up to the light, admiring it. "This is the McNally Solitaire, the ring you made for the emerald in the Scotland Royal Museum."

He nodded. "I was planning to replace the original with this when I stole it."

"It's superb workmanship—your finest." Mozzie's expression softened. "You were going to give the ring to Kate, weren't you?"

"It was to be her engagement ring," Neal admitted, permitting himself one final twinge of regret over what might have been. "There's no need to hold onto it now. You can use the stone for payment. I'll melt down the gold to make the setting. There should be enough."

"The stone is exquisite. Even though man-made, it's still very valuable. This will more than pay for the blue diamond. You'll have money left over."

"You should keep it. Consider it a thank you for all the favors I'm asking. One of them involves Gordon Taylor."

Mozzie was happy to go along with Neal's request. "Gordon will be delighted at the latest addition to his crew. All in all, I commend you. The con has elegance and finesse. But the lack of time will be a major challenge, and of course, the other hurdle is . . ." and Mozz nudged Neal's anklet. "I'm not at all sure about letting a suit in on this."

Neal had given much thought to that himself. Why did he trust Travis? It was hard to explain to Mozzie, but instinctively he knew he could. And he'd learned his instincts were usually right. That didn't answer, however, why Travis was helping him. He hoped to solve that piece of the puzzle later. "For his sake, I'll keep him out of it as much as possible. I think there's a way to handle it. In any case, it may not work. We could run the con without him, but it won't be as elegant."

Mozzie went over to Neal's wine rack and pulled out a bottle. "This Nuits-Saint-Georges calls out to be enjoyed." Pouring out two glasses and handing one to Neal, he said, "To what may well be your greatest con . . . till the next one!"

 

* * *

_Notes: Ah, Mozzie and the Columbia University tunnels . . . So much potential. I feel quite safe in predicting Mozzie is just beginning his adventures in the tunnels. Mozzie is also a big fan of the TV series Supernatural which unfortunately he views as a documentary, hence the salt shaker. Supernatural fans know that salt is one of the best demon repellents around. Rat reservoirs are a real phenomenon to Manhattan underground locations, but I don't advocate the use of blowtorches against them._

_Many thanks to master storyteller Penna Nomen for her help on this and all the chapters. And thanks to you for reading and your comments!_


	9. Alliances

**Mona Lisa Hotel, Little Italy. November 20, 2004. Saturday afternoon.**

"What the hell happened?" Fowler slammed his fist on the table. After leaving the gym at Columbia, he'd gone straight to see Tramonte at his efficiency in a small extended-stay hotel in Little Italy. They'd originally set up the meet to pay off the balance of what he owed Tramonte for the job. Fat chance of that happening now.

"Watch it, Fowler," Tramonte hissed. His voice was low but angry, the threat in his words obvious. "I planted the earrings just as we agreed."

"Well, they weren't in his locker." Fowler was in full war mode. He wasn't about to let Tramonte weasel out of the blame for the monumental disaster at Columbia. "How could you have screwed up so badly?"

"They were right there in a pocket of his jeans in his locker. You should have found them. I didn't realize I was dealing with idiots. I guess I should have taped them to the locker door."

"We searched that locker thoroughly. Searched Caffrey. You say you planted them midway through the match. He didn't leave the floor the entire time. Where are they?"

"He must have taken them," Tramonte muttered, shaking his head, "unless someone else found them first."

"All I know is that Caffrey didn't have them." Fowler jabbed his finger at Tramonte's chest. "You guaranteed this would go off without a hitch. Now I got Burke breathing down my neck. Caffrey's playing the innocent victim card. His chances of staying with the FBI are looking better and better." Glaring at Tramonte, he added, "Don't expect to get paid."

Tramonte stared at him in disbelief. "Trying to welch on me? You still owe me half of what you promised, and you'll pay, all right. That money was to reimburse me for the loss of the earrings. I did what we agreed. I'm out the earrings now. If you didn't recover them, that's your problem, not mine."

Tramonte gestured for him to sit down at the table and poured him out a large Scotch. Sitting down across the table from him, he added, "But I'm feeling generous and may be willing to help you out. Your dilemma is understandable. You want to get rid of Caffrey and he's proving too slippery. I can solve your problem, easy. Take him out once and for all. You pay me the rest of what you owe plus fifty grand for the extra work and it's done."

Fowler stared at him, choking on his drink. "Wait—what are we talking about? Murder? I can't go along with that." The situation was rapidly spinning out of control. Why hadn't the kid just gone ahead and accepted his offer? This could have all been over. "My orders are to discredit him enough that he leaves the FBI. Nothing was said about killing him."

"How's that working for you?" Tramonte looked at him pointedly. "Sounds to me like he's staying put."

Resting his elbow on the table, Fowler scratched the side of his neck, not able to believe he was even talking about this. But he was already in too deep and Tramonte had too much on him. Like it or not, Fowler would have to work with him. "I'll have to get further instructions. It couldn't look like murder," he warned.

Tramonte shrugged. "Not a problem. I call up a few friends, snatch him off the street. We could ice him so no one would ever find him. Or maybe you'd rather it look like he was killed trying to escape? Hit-and-run's very effective."

"I'll let you know tonight," Fowler said.

"When you return, you better have my money with you," Tramonte's eyes glittered malevolently. "Trust me. You don't want me as your enemy."

**White Collar Division. November 20, 2004. Saturday afternoon.**

"Tramonte was at the gym?" Jones stared at Peter in amazement.

"That's right," Peter said. "Neal spotted him in a corridor just before the competition was due to start." Jones along with Travis and Diana had joined Peter in the conference room. On a Saturday afternoon, the bullpen was deserted. They didn't have to worry about being overheard.

"You think he's working with Fowler." Diana said. It was a statement, not a question.

Peter shrugged. "I'm not a fan of coincidences. The timing's too suspicious. That so-called tip Fowler heard? My hunch is that Tramonte still has the earrings. Fowler paid him off to plant them in Neal's locker but for some reason he didn't. Maybe there were too many people around and he never got the chance."

Peter was grateful that no one questioned him about why he believed Tramonte had the earrings. He hadn't told them about Neal's other hypothetical scenario, but they undoubtedly were forming their own ideas about what was going on. Did they believe Neal had the earrings now? Probably. But they knew better than to bring up anything incriminating in an official setting.

"What did Hughes say when you told him?" Travis asked.

"He's agreed to lodge a formal complaint against Fowler. But it could be Monday before it's acted upon. Hughes is really stepping up to the plate. He's already called the Assistant Director to request Fowler be removed from the case. No word on that yet. But at the very least the AD will reprimand him and that may serve to keep Fowler from taking further steps against Neal."

"That probably won't happen till Monday," Jones pointed out. "And if Fowler's gone rogue, I don't know that even an official reprimand will do much good."

"I agree," Peter said, "but it's a start. The AD has also agreed, effective immediately, to let me monitor Neal's anklet."

"How will that help?" Diana asked, tapping a pencil on the table. "We're not worried about tracking Neal, but about Fowler and Tramonte."

"I'm concerned about Neal's safety," Peter admitted. "Tramonte's a suspected killer. After what happened this morning, he may have Neal in his sights."

Jones sat back in his chair, frowning. "With Caffrey's movements so restricted and Fowler monitoring him, he makes an easy target."

"Neal's not saying much, but I can tell he's worried about that too. He told me he's moving into his studio this weekend. He doesn't want June to be at risk. If we're right that Fowler and Tramonte are acting together, Fowler is keeping Tramonte informed on his location."

"I'm going to visit Neal this evening," Travis said. "I'd asked for a tour of the computer music center in Prentis Hall. I'll make an excuse to walk back with him to his studio in Watson afterwards."

"Thanks, Travis," Peter said gratefully. "When Neal's at Watson or at Prentis, he's relatively safe, but the area around Prentis is not on the main campus. Walking alone on Broadway, he'll be exposed." Peter shook his head in frustration. "I lectured him to take a taxi when he goes anywhere, but he just rolled his eyes at me. He's too cocky and that's a big concern."

"We should also start surveillance on Tramonte," Jones said. "We know where he's staying. I'm free this evening."

"I'll prepare the surveillance equipment and take the afternoon shift," Travis offered. "I can monitor Tramonte until I need to leave for Columbia."

"Sign me up for the graveyard shift," Peter said. "I'm not getting much sleep anyway these days."

Diana was jotting down names. "I'm penciling myself in for Sunday morning."

Travis was studying his notes, frowning.

"Something bothering you?" Peter asked.

Travis put into words what they all must be feeling. "We've been working on the assumption that someone stole the earrings because of their value and then has been trying to make Neal the scapegoat. With his past history he was the natural fall guy. And we're also assuming that Tramonte was the thief and in league with a corrupt FBI agent, apparently Fowler. But now we're saying Tramonte was willing to plant the earrings on Neal. That means the earrings aren't the goal in all this, but bringing Neal down is. Did I miss something?"

"No, you didn't," Peter said soberly.

"But why is Neal the target?" Diana challenged. "I have a hard time believing Fowler hates him so much that he's willing to go to this extreme. Unless . . . maybe he or a family member was somehow injured by Neal in the past?" Answering her own question she added, "It does sound to me like some sort of personal vendetta's going on."

"Tricia's researching Fowler's background in Washington," Peter said. "I'm hopeful she'll unearth something which will give us a better understanding of his motivation."

A schedule was quickly worked out for the rest of the weekend. On Monday they'd regroup, depending on what steps OPR decided to take. Travis left to take the first shift. Peter offered to drop Diana off on his way home. As they entered the elevator, Diana looked over at him. "You know, boss, we may not have considered all the hypotheticals. Another possible scenario has occurred to me."

"What's that?" Peter asked, uneasy over what he'd say if she asked about Neal having the earrings.

"What if Tramonte had put the earrings in the wrong locker? The lockers just have numbers on them, not names. We're assuming Tramonte found the locker list in the coach's office, but maybe he misread the number."

"That's an intriguing thought. Go with it." Breathing easier, Peter pushed the button for the garage.

"Suppose a student found the earrings in his locker and informed campus police. They would have called in NYPD who, of course, already knows about the missing earrings. Given that the FBI has such a dismal record for keeping them safe, NYPD would have decided to keep them in their own vault awaiting transfer to the Smithsonian."

Peter nodded slowly as he thought about how it would play out. "If Fowler were to hear about it, he'd tell Tramonte and that could take some of the heat off Neal. Fowler will relax, believing that with the earrings recovered, Neal will be implicated as the one who hid them there. And there'd be no reason for Tramonte to target Neal."

"Exactly. Fowler will be smug in the belief his plan worked out after all. The story won't last very long, but it could give Neal a little breathing space. You know how tough it can be to get information out of NYPD. If Fowler called them to confirm it, on a weekend he'd have a difficult time finding the right person, getting authorization . . ." She shrugged. "It might take at least a day."

"How would Fowler know what happened?" Peter asked as they exited the elevator.

Diana slanted him a sly grin. "Your phone's still bugged, isn't it? Wouldn't you want to give me a call from home to fill me in on what you'd heard?"

**Burke residence. November 20, 2004. Saturday evening.**

Peter leaned back on the couch cushions. He'd placed the call to Diana. How long would it take for Fowler to contact Tramonte? Too bad they hadn't planted a bug on him. He would have loved to have heard that conversation. Diana's devious scheme had impressed Peter. That kind of imaginative thinking was a valuable asset to the team. She reminded him a little of Neal. It was no wonder the two of them worked so well together.

El had spent most of the day overseeing a wedding at a polo club. She'd come home a couple hours earlier with leftovers from the event. The side benefits of having a spouse as an event planner. . . .

El brought in a plate of canapés and sat beside him on the couch. "We have vols-au-vents, mascarpone sprouts with pickled onion—"

"These look good," Peter interrupted, pointing to something more substantial on the plate.

"I thought you'd like those," El said with a laugh. "Glazed honey and mustard sausages. There are plenty more in the kitchen. I'm so sorry I had to miss Neal's fencing match. Be sure to borrow Travis's video so I can watch it."

Peter poured her a glass of wine. "I wish you'd been there too. I'd no idea he was so good. When he first told me about his fencing, I assumed he just knew the basics—enough to pull a con and no more. Instead, there he was fencing on a team, beating their toughest opponent." Peter paused to spear a sausage. "Afterwards, when he was being mobbed by his teammates, it took me back to my college years and the feeling I had when my baseball team won a game."

El's face darkened. "To have Fowler stomp on Neal's moment of triumph was so despicable. Words can't express how angry that makes me feel."

"I'm right there with you. Neal couldn't have expected that he'd have to face Fowler as an opponent too. Escaping unscathed from that skirmish was his toughest challenge of the competition."

"You think Fowler tried to set him up, don't you?" El fixed her eyes on him with that intent look she had when he was trying to keep something from her. "What is it you're not telling me?"

Peter hesitated. He hadn't told El about Tramonte being present and Neal's hypothetical scenarios. Neal was playing high stakes poker now. He'd as much as admitted to Peter he'd found the earrings in his locker. If they were discovered on him, the chances of clearing him would plummet to zero. He'd be charged in the theft of the robbery of the vault and probably convicted. It was conceivable even El might be called to testify. Much as he longed to talk things through with her, he couldn't and had to restrict himself to saying, "Sorry, El, Neal's keeping me out of the loop too, and there's very little I can do to help."

El put down her glass and took his hand. "He's trying to protect you, shield you from any fallout. I'm very grateful. And besides, you may be part of his plan without even knowing it. Just like the phone call you made to Diana, you're assisting in other ways. Your team is running interference which I'm sure he values."

"And we're not the only team he has."

"What do you mean?"

"Neal's friends at Columbia—Richard and Aidan—they appear to be rallying around Neal as if they knew about the trouble he's in. It makes me wonder how much he told them. I should be upset that he's   involving them in something which is over their heads and may put them all at risk, but I find myself being even more comforted that his friends are standing by him."

"That's the dad in you talking," El said. "It's taking precedence over your FBI side, and I'm glad."

"Neal's friends at Columbia are helping to keep him grounded."

El squeezed his arm. "They're not the only ones. Sounds to me like you and his friends together are providing just what Neal needs: a reason not to run."

"I just hope staying around to fight doesn't lead to a disaster." Despite the phone call to Diana, there were far too many unknowns in the equation for Peter to rest easy.

**Columbia University. Saturday evening.**

After Mozzie left the loft, Neal packed his gear for the move to Watson Hall. Cramming everything he could think of that he'd need for the next few days into gym bags was more of a chore than he'd realized. Surveying the heaps of books, clothes, and tools with dismay, Neal wondered what had happened to the carefree Caffrey of old who could pick up and leave on a moment's notice at the whisper of a job or whenever it got too hot to stay around. When had he become such a pack rat? For once the fedora was staying at home. He tossed it onto the nightstand with a flick of his wrist. Let it serve as a sign he was coming back.

June was still away at her Saturday afternoon ladies' poker group, so Neal wrote a note for her with a promise to call and explain. If all went according to plan, he'd be returning on Tuesday. When Neal arrived at his studio, he had just enough time to unpack and grab a quick bite before meeting Travis at the entrance of Prentis Hall at seven o'clock.

"Not bad." Travis nodded in approval as they walked down a graffiti-covered corridor to Aidan's studio. He stopped to check out a room stuffed with electronic equipment. "Prentis isn't what I expected, in a good way." Neal was not surprised at his reaction. At work Travis was White Collar's answer to MI6's Q. His passion for electronics was matched perhaps only by his enthusiasm for sci-fi. Prentis, with its interior resembling the grunge setting for a B-grade sci-fi movie, was a natural for someone like him.

"We call it the Borg Mother Ship. Wait till you hear the screeching and you'll see what I mean." Neal pointed out a gray metal door. The paint had peeled off the rusted steel in several spots. "That takes you down to the basement and sub-basement. It's a veritable graveyard of pipes, mildewed equipment and electronic relics. Not exactly the heart of a spaceship—more like the wreckage of Captain Nemo's sub."

Travis paused to open the door and peer down the stairs. "I can tell already that I'll want to make several return trips here."

Aidan's studio was just beyond the door leading to the basement. Before opening the studio door, Neal turned to Travis. "You know you're free to leave at any time and I'll understand. Don't feel like you're under any kind of obligation."

"Thanks, but you keep forgetting how interested I am in computer music." A smile flitted across his face as he opened the door. "One more new world to be explored."

Aidan and Richard were waiting for them inside. Neal had already told them about Travis's offer and warned them of the need to choose their words carefully when they were discussing their plans.

Aidan started the ball rolling with an explanation of his art. "In my latest works I've been striving to incorporate sounds, video, and music in unexpected ways. For instance mixing the growl of a tiger with synthesizer-generated sounds in a video which mashes up distorted scenes of a jungle in India with Wall Street footage."

"That's one of my favorites," Richard said. "The spectator is filled with a sense of foreboding without necessarily understanding why. You get the frightening sense of being stalked by an unseen predator."

"In my latest project I plan to make use of sounds that aren't within our normal hearing range but may act on us subliminally. I'm including the ultrasonic calls bats emit to locate their prey. If I can make it work, the spectator will be able to hold up their cell phone and its identifier will be converted into a distinctive musical phrase which is then woven into the video."

"Fascinating," Travis commented, stroking his chin.

"For it to succeed, it must also be capable of canceling out the signals of other cell phones, so that the music doesn't get distorted." Aidan paused and then brazenly added, "I've been working with this nifty anklet that Neal's wearing to build a prototype. I figure if my equipment works with it, it will work with anything, right?"

Travis shrugged nonchalantly. "A logical assumption."

"Here's where I'm stumbling. I haven't been able to create a sound-canceling device. Any ideas on what I could try?"

Neal held his breath, waiting for Travis's reaction. He'd already warned Richard and Aidan not to push it. It was obvious what they wanted, but they'd concocted an adequate if slightly outrageous alibi should Travis accept it. If the con blew up, the fact that Aidan was making the request would give Travis a tiny amount of additional wiggle room.

Travis looked at them speculatively. "You want a signal jammer," he said bluntly.

"That's right," Aidan answered coolly. "Can it be done?"

Travis was completed unfazed. It was as if Aidan had asked him if he could make a paper airplane.

"I believe so," he said. "I've never attempted it, but I have an idea on where to start. Since we don't have any bats to experiment with, Neal's anklet makes a good substitute." Travis was a better actor than Neal had given him credit for. That he could come out with that non sequitur with a straight face was impressive.

Travis turned to face Neal. "But there's a problem with using your anklet for a prototype."

"What's that?" Neal asked with an innocent look, bracing himself.

"Any testing we do would cause the signal to blink or cut out. You'll wind up with the U.S. Marshals pounding on the door before you know what hit you."

"That thought also occurred to us," Richard said. "A friend of mine procured a similar model for us to use for testing." He handed Travis the anklet Mozzie had given them.

Travis studied it. "This particular model isn't used by the FBI but I believe the signal mechanism is identical to the one Neal is wearing. It should work well for testing purposes."

"These are the supplies I've lined up already for the project," Aidan said, indicating a pile of equipment on his table.

Travis moved over to the table and examined the gear. "That's a good start. Once we get a design in place, we can buy the additional components. What kind of time frame are we looking at?"

"I need to meet with my professor on Monday to present my design," Aidan said. "If I can't build the jammer, I may have to scrap my design and start over. Do you think we could build it in a day?"

"Probably, but acquiring the parts will be difficult on a Sunday."

"That's not a problem," Richard said. "My friend works on Sundays."

"Interesting," Travis commented. "A good person to know. I'd like to meet him sometime. Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get to work."

Travis sat down next to Aidan at the worktable and they started discussing the design parameters. Neal pulled Richard aside. "While they're working on the jammer, I could use your help on a miniature treasure chest I'm building. It's just the thing for someone who has pirate blood in his veins."

When Neal went over to his backpack to pull out the design his cell phone buzzed. Peter. Probably verifying that Tramonte wasn't playing Sicilian roulette with him. Neal stepped outside the studio and closed the door before answering it.

"Still at Prentis I see," Peter said. "Travis enjoying the tour?"

Startled, Neal asked, "How'd you know?"

"Hughes got me the authorization to monitor your anklet along with OPR. They also have to keep me in the loop if they want to see you. That bother you?"

"No, it's a relief. I'm glad when OPR breaks down the door next time, you'll be there. Are you able to monitor from home?"

"Yes, the program is on my laptop and runs continuously. There's even an alarm that sounds if you're out of range."

"Outstanding. If the alarm should go off, not of course that it will, would you accompany the Marshals?"

"Better believe it."

"That would be very comforting to our hypothetical victim."

"I have more good news, which may make our hypothetical victim breathe a little easier …"

Neal couldn't resist chuckling when he got off the phone with Peter. The con Diana had conceived was devious enough to win even Mozzie's praise. Hopefully Tramonte had already heard about it.

At ten o'clock they called it quits. Aidan sounded very optimistic when he described their progress to Richard and Neal.

"About how large do you want the jammer to be?" Travis asked.

"Something that would fit in a pocket would be great." Aidan said, adding shamelessly, "then I could hide it in my sculpture."

Aidan was rocking the con. Good thing Mozzie wasn't here to watch or Neal wouldn't be able to hold him off from recruiting him for more projects. "What kind of range are we talking about?" Neal asked.

"Maximum distance of twenty feet from the cell phone," Travis replied. "Are you guys going to be here tomorrow? I'll need to work on it here. I can't use the FBI lab for personal projects. It will probably take all day," he warned.

"Not a problem," Neal said. "I'm camping out at Watson this weekend and can get you in."

"Aidan and I both will be here, working on our art," Richard added. "In the evening we have a band session. That starts at eight here at Prentis."

"Is this the group that's going to play at Thanksgiving?" Travis asked.

"The one and only." Neal filled him in on the details. "We're always on the lookout for new recruits. You play anything?" he asked, half joking.

"Drums, I played a little in college," he admitted. "But it's been quite a while, and I don't even own a set now."

"We really could use a drummer," said Richard. "We don't have any drums either but we could borrow digital drums from the Computer Music Center. Care to give it a shot?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Stowing their gear at the end of the evening only took a few minutes. Most of the equipment could safely be left in Aidan's studio. Richard stashed Mozzie's anklet in his backpack. They all walked together to the subway stop on 125th Street and Broadway. Aidan and Richard both lived on the Upper West Side and would take the Broadway local train from there. Neal assumed Travis had also taken the subway from his apartment in the Village, but instead Travis said he'd parked his car in a garage on 115th Street close to Watson Hall and offered to join Neal for the ten-block walk down Broadway.

Travis could have parked his car in any number of garages closer to Prentis than 115th Street. Neal didn't need to ask why he hadn't. He was grateful for the company. He'd walked this route many times and usually enjoyed the exercise. But despite Diana's subterfuge, Neal was uneasy about what Tramonte might be up to. If Travis hadn't been along, he would have ducked into a tunnel entrance at the northern boundary of the campus on 120th Street.

The moon hung low over the roofs of the old brick buildings lining Broadway. A cold front had arrived during the afternoon, dropping the temperature unseasonably. As Neal and Travis headed south, Neal thrust his hands into his pockets, wishing he'd remembered to bring his gloves. Travis had turned up the collar of his pea coat. At this hour of the night the shops were all dark, and there were fewer people than normal on the streets. But the frigid weather hadn't dampened the number of vans, cars, and trucks of all descriptions which rumbled down Broadway. An occasional taxi passed them, always occupied. Taxis didn't cruise for passengers in this section of town.

"You seem quite familiar with Columbia," Neal said. "You come here often?"

"The astronomy department schedules public lectures at Pupin Hall. I've been attending them for a few years now."

"I'm surprised I haven't—"

"Watch out!" someone called out, as an ear-splitting squeal of brakes erupted behind them. As Neal jerked his head around, Travis gave him a hard shove away from the curb with one hand, reaching under his coat with his other. A battered Mustang careened past them and with a roar accelerated down the roadway. The man behind them who'd shouted the warning was walking his dog, a small gray poodle. Stooping to stroke it, he grumbled, "Where are the cops when you need them? Drunken idiots. They almost hit us."

Exchanging wry shrugs, Neal and Travis resumed their walk. After a few moments, Neal broached the subject which had been in the back of his mind for quite a while. "Don't get me wrong—I'm very appreciative of what you're doing—but you're taking quite a risk. Even that first day when I was suspended, you offered to help. I'm not exactly the poster child of a model citizen. Why are you taking such a chance?"

"I'm not surprised you're asking. If I were in your shoes, I'd do the same. After Fowler's actions, you may wonder if I have a secret agenda."

"Maybe I should, but I'm not."

"Watching what's going on with you and OPR reminds me of what happened to me in high school. I had a similar experience, not so serious, although at the time it was pretty devastating. Most kids like high school. Not me. It was something to be endured. I didn't have many friends." Travis continued to scan their surroundings as they walked, but he shot him a quick look, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "A nerdy kid in glasses who happens to be gay doesn't quite measure up to a football player on the popularity scale, at least not at my high school, and I couldn't wait to escape to college."

Easy to relate to what Travis was saying. High school had been no picnic for Neal either.

"One group of kids in particular were out to make my life miserable. Long story short, my final semester they ganged up to claim I'd cheated on a test. I finally proved my innocence, but it took a while." Travis winced at the memory. "I was panicking that I'd lose my scholarship. I'd been accepted to the University of Texas at Austin. That scholarship was my ticket to the big city and a new life."

Neal raised a brow. "Austin a big city? Maybe college town . . . "

Travis chuckled. "Compared with where I grew up, Austin seemed like a dazzling metropolis. On Tuesday when I saw you packing up your desk to leave, I had that same sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like when I was suspended." He slanted a glance at Neal. "It's brutal, I know."

"Yeah." Neal didn't know what else to say except that he'd wished he been there to help Travis the way Travis was helping him now.

"That experience in high school and the rush I got from being able to clear myself are what made me decide to join the FBI. It may sound a little hokey, but doing my bit to fight injustice, that's what it's all about for me."

Travis's words hit home. His reason for joining the FBI was very close to Neal's. They both had wanted to do something good with their lives. Neal had wondered this past week if he'd made a mistake choosing this path. Travis was reminding him he hadn't.

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading and your comments! Special thanks to Penna Nomen for her help in improving the scenes with Fowler and Travis._

_Next week, in Chapter 10: Rendezvous, Neal prepares to take on Tramonte and Peter pays a visit to Columbia. Travis and Mozzie both are fascinated by the rich history of Prentis Hall. It still has some secrets waiting for them to unlock. I've added a few photos of Prentis as well as other visuals to The Queen's Jewels board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site at_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon/).


	10. Rendezvous

**Columbia University. November 21, 2004. Sunday morning.**

On Sunday morning, Neal was already at Prentis Hall by seven o'clock. That was one of the advantages of living in his studio. It was too uncomfortable to oversleep.

The day before, he'd moved all the gear he thought he would need into his studio. Despite Peter's words of reassurance about Diana's con, he didn't want to take any chances. Let Tramonte hang around Columbia. Neal didn't want him anywhere near June. If it all went according to plan, he wouldn't have to live at his studio very long.

The only metal shop at Columbia was at Prentis Hall. Aidan's studio there had become the base of operations for the musketeers. On the way over, Neal stopped off to pick up bagels and coffee for everyone. Richard and Aidan had also arrived early and over breakfast they worked out their schedules. Aidan would spend the day working on the chip for the duplicate signal emitter. Travis had said he'd arrive at eight to design the signal jammer.

While Neal made the ring setting, Richard would prepare a custom ring box back at Watson. The previous night they'd finalized the design for a hidden compartment in the bottom of the ring box. The case appeared to be tooled leather but had a thin aluminum core and was unexpectedly light. When the Marie Antoinette earrings were inside, the weight would be equivalent to a traditional box with only the ring.

After letting Travis in, Neal headed for the metal shop. On a Sunday morning he had the shop to himself. Mozzie had brought over the specialized tools required for the job the previous afternoon when he picked up the stone. Neal had already made several settings in the past so wasn't expecting any issues to crop up. Recycling the metal wouldn't be a challenge.

But when it came time for the first step—melting down the setting of the McNally Solitaire—Neal had to stop. He hadn't expected to get that emotional about it. After all, it was just a ring, wasn't it? Neal sat on the edge of a stool, fingering it. Seeing the setting with no stone was intense. That ring was meant to be a symbol of his love for Kate. Now all that remained was an empty shell.

It wasn't that long ago when he'd made it, but he'd been a different person. He was Adler's protégé with Adler schooling him in the high-spending lifestyle of the New York elite just as Mansfeld had done in Europe. Neal had met Mozzie shortly after moving to New York in 2003 and was learning new skills: ring-making, counterfeiting, advanced cons.

That whole period—from the time he'd worked with Keller, Klaus, Mozzie, until finally Adler—Neal had gone from one sorcerer to another, apprenticing himself out and absorbing every trick he could master from them. Throughout the process he was spinning more and more out of control. So what if he nearly got singed? The Berlin job, the Uffizi manuscript, the coin job in Madrid, they all should have been wake-up calls, but with every near disaster he'd simply flee and move on to the next sorcerer.

And there was Kate. He'd fallen hard for her. When he'd made this ring, he'd been so sure she shared his feelings. They were caught up in the same whirlwind together. Life in the clouds had been intoxicating. There was nothing he couldn't do and no one to stop him.

But then the dream world vanished with the debacle over the Ponzi scheme.  Not long afterwards he finally woke up to Kate's true feelings about him. And the ring? One of the last surviving relics of that life was now his ticket to con his way back into the FBI.

Shaking off the memories, Neal got up and tossed the ring into the crucible.

He was using the lost wax process to prepare the new setting and the schedule was tight. He'd have to carve the wax mold, polish, and refine it by midday if he hoped to cast and finish the ring by the evening. He only had a couple of photos of the original ring to work with. But Tramonte wouldn't have any more knowledge than he did, so it should pass inspection.

Once the gold was melted, Neal made quick work of carving the mold and by eleven was ready for a break. He decided to return to Watson to help Richard. On the way he'd stop off at Aidan's studio to store his materials and check on Travis and Aidan's progress. Neal was cleaning up his tools when Peter called him on his cell phone.

"Had lunch yet?" Peter asked.

"No, but I'm aiming to."

"How 'bout I join you? El's working today and made lunch for both of us. Okay if I meet you at your studio? I could be there in about an hour."

"Could you give me an extra thirty minutes? As you know, I'm over at Prentis."

"Metal shop?"

"Yeah, arts and crafts."

"Roman coins?

"Would you like me to make you some?" Neal grinned. He was glad Peter called. Something had changed since that tense Saturday lunch. He could tell from Peter's voice that he was more relaxed. Apparently Peter had come to terms with the situation. Neal wished he could bring Peter in on the con, but there were too many illegal aspects to it. At least now they could tease each other about it.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Excellent pasta salad, Peter. El outdid herself." Neal put down his fork. "I don't know when I've eaten so well as this past week. With all the food she's been providing . . . she does realize I have access to other food sources, right? That OPR is permitting me to eat?"

"She wants to do it, Neal. It helps her cope."

They were sitting in Neal's studio. He'd cleared off his work table to make space for the hamper of food Peter had brought. Neal could see Peter's eyes scan the clothes stuffed in gym bags and the stacks of books.

"Where'd you sleep? I know you said you didn't want to stay at June's but surely you didn't sleep on the floor?"

"The lounge. I wasn't alone. There was another guy crashing. The worst part is having to go out in the cold for a cup of coffee, but I'll live." Neal paused and asked the question on the top on his mind. "You mentioned you had some news?"

"Our surveillance paid off." Peter moved his plate aside and rested his elbows on the worktable. "We photographed Fowler visiting Tramonte last night. Have confirmation from the desk clerk. I wouldn't be surprised if Fowler somehow didn't hear about the discovery of the earrings. He must have chewed Tramonte out royally for hiding them in the wrong locker."

"It would be an easy mistake to make. I've seen that sheet of paper in the coach's office that has the locker assignments. Scrawls you wouldn't believe." Neal winced in fake sympathy. "Such an embarrassment for Tramonte."

"He should have less of a reason to go after you now." Peter opened the cooler and brought out a beer. "Sure you don't want to join me with one of these? We need to toast success whenever it comes. El insisted I bring imported."

"You know I think I just might," Neal said as he accepted a Stella Artois—El really had thought of everything. "I still feel it's better for me to stay away from June's place. And since I'm focusing on my courses and art right now, this is a convenient place to camp out."

"About that …" Peter's face grew serious. "I know you're planning something."

Neal started to interrupt, but Peter held up a hand to forestall him. "Save it. And don't worry, I won't try to pry it out of you. I understand why you're not telling me. The shelf life for this con about the earrings having been discovered is not very long. Will it be enough?"

Neal was surprised Peter was being so upfront about it. The least he could do was respond in kind. "Honestly, I don't know but I hope so. I don't plan to sleep here much longer."

"Nothing like having an extra incentive. You have to be pining for the loft already." Peter walked over to the whiteboard on the wall. "I see you've added a new acronym. Now there's AFO under SAS. What's that? Art Fanciers Organization?"

"Not even close."

"And what was SAS again? You mentioned it and it slipped my mind."

Neal chuckled. "Good try. You know I never told you. Want to try another guess?"

"I'm still working on it. Got a new challenge now. Surely it's not Art Forgers Organization?" Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked at Neal suspiciously. "Is there an Art Forgers Organization?"

Interrupting Neal's reply was a light rap on the door. "Hey, I've got a ques— Oh . . . Hi, Peter." Richard had started to enter the room but stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of Peter. "Sorry, I won't bother you. We—we'll talk later."

"No, go right ahead. No bother at all," Peter said, beckoning him in. "Like a beer? I have plenty."

"Sure, ooookaaaay." Richard glanced over at Neal nervously. It was obvious he wasn't used to playing these games. He was probably trying to figure out how much Peter knew. "I was just . . . assembling a mobile and wanted to ask for Neal's help."

"Mobile? I'm good at putting two and two together." Peter handed Richard a beer. "Tell you what, we'll both come over. This will be fun." Peter was clearly enjoying himself more and more.

Peter and Neal walked with Richard to his studio. Behind Peter's back, Neal shrugged to a flustered Richard. Not much Neal would be able to do to make it easier for Richard. He was playing major league ball now.

Richard's mobile had grown in size since last Neal saw it and was threatening to devour his entire studio. Metal pieces, boxes of balls, and cable lay on the table, chairs, floor, every available surface. Lying in the midst of all the clutter was the aluminum shell for the ring box, but since the leather skin hadn't been applied, it looked like one of the parts for the mobile.

Richard eyed Peter uneasily as he surveyed the chaos and paused at the whiteboard. "So you're AFO too? What gives?"

Neal jumped in. "Peter loves puzzles. We shouldn't give him any clues. It would spoil his fun."

"Glad you enjoy puzzles," Richard said, picking up the cue. "Assembling this mobile is like working a gigantic jigsaw."

As Neal and Peter helped Richard attach a new arm to the mobile, Peter said, "I was surprised to see you at the fencing competition. Didn't know you fenced."

"Aidan and Neal coerced me to give it a whirl. I'm a rank beginner."

"Don't be so modest. I observed you practicing with Neal before his sabre bout. Anyone who is decent enough to be used as a warm-up before an event must have talents I was unaware of."

Richard squirmed uncomfortably. "Guess it's the pirate blood in me."

"Pirate blood, huh? That must be it." Peter, smiling, dropped the subject. No doubt, he took pity on Richard. Neal scored two points for Peter in that bout.

Afterward, they invited Richard back to Neal's studio to help polish off the food. Neal was relieved to see Peter behave, contenting himself with discussing Richard's plans for the mobile and his other works for the spring exhibition.

When Richard left, Peter asked Neal if he'd be working at his studio in the afternoon.

"No, I'll be over at Prentis most of the day."

"Why not at Watson? Your art's here."

"I'm working on a metal sculpture." Okay, a bit of a stretch, but technically you could call a ring mount a sculpture. Neal's aversion to lying to Peter had developed into a game of how far could he stretch the truth without breaking it. He'd award himself two points for creativity for that one. That made them even. "Besides, you should be happy I'm there, Peter. The security's tighter."

"That's where Aidan's studio is, right?" When Neal nodded, Peter shook his head and grinned at him.

"What?" Neal asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Peter said. "I'm just happy you've made such good friends here." Picking up the hamper, he added, "If you need any more help with mobiles, or anything else, you give me a call, okay?"

"Thanks, and thank El for me. Tell her I hope to be back grazing at your place before very long."

"We're both counting on it."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Midafternoon, Mozzie showed up at the entrance to Prentis Hall, complete with his Athos wig and wide-brimmed felt hat.

"I see you've acquired a plume for your hat," Neal said as he let him in.

"I've become very fond of my _chapeau_ ," Mozzie replied, stroking the feather with his hand. "It adds a certain rakish flair to my demeanor."

Neal decided to play along. Mozzie was having too much fun at being Athos to be denied. "Have you considered a cape to complement your ensemble?"

Mozzie's eyes lit up. "Excellent point! Particularly for tomorrow night. Speaking of which, my contact was happy to oblige. The stone will be ready tomorrow afternoon. How is the mount progressing?"

"I'll finish it by the end of the day," Neal said as he opened the door to Aidan's studio.

"Athos, what news?" Aidan said, saluting him cheerfully.

Reaching into a canvas tote, Mozzie pulled out three boxes. "There are the supplies you'd asked for. I've also procured a device which should cause Richelieu considerable consternation." He opened one of the boxes and removed a cell phone from a leather case, handing it to Neal. "This is the latest model from Qualcomm. It has a built-in GPS device and with a little modification should suit our needs nicely."

Neal examined the phone. "Mickey Mouse? Really?"

"Have you forgotten the Mouseketeers? Under the circumstances, it seemed appropriate."

The studio door opened and Richard and Travis walked into the studio. Mozzie froze as if he'd been caught in the blinding glare of police searchlights but Richard appeared not to notice and greeted him warmly, "Athos, glad you're here. Travis, this is the friend I was telling you about."

Mozzie, trying gallantly to recover his sangfroid, assumed a dignified stance as far as possible away from Travis. He twirled a lock from his wig in front of his face as he mumbled a " _Salut_ " to the arrivals.

Travis, taking in the wig and the hat, kept a straight face with only a slight quirk at the corners of his mouth. Travis had met Mozzie earlier in the fall. He and Mozzie had kept a long vigil with El when Peter and Neal were being held by the cybercriminal Azathoth. There was no way Travis wouldn't recognize Mozzie now. But Neal wasn't concerned. Travis undoubtedly had guessed the identity of Richard's mystery supplier anyway.

"Richard was showing me around the basement," Travis said. "We crawled up a shaft from the basement to the secret door on the second floor. Made me feel like I was in the ventilator shaft of the _Enterprise_."

Travis had used the magic words to make Mozzie lose his initial terror. "Secret door? You do know that Prentis is rumored to be the birthplace of the atom bomb. I wonder—"

"The second floor is the heat transfer research center, not a clandestine nuclear research facility," Aidan hastened to assure him. "Believe me, I've checked."

"Ah, the gullibility of youth. That's what the overlords would have you believe," Mozzie rebuffed enigmatically. "I bid you _au revoir_ until our next rendezvous," and with a final doff of his hat Mozzie exited stage right.

Neal suspected his departure had been precipitated by Travis's arrival, and that was for the best for Travis's sake as well. Neal didn't want Travis involved any more than absolutely necessary. Plausible deniability was the code phrase of the day.

By six o'clock, Neal had finished the final steps of aging and polishing the ring. After a careful scrutiny g it with his loupe, he nodded with satisfaction. He hadn't lost his touch. It'd been a while since he'd made a ring but Klaus had taught him well. He'd have to find more reasons to keep his skill up.

Neal returned to Aidan's studio to check on the progress of the others. Travis was in the midst of checking his prototype. "What do you think of the size?" he asked Aidan, ignoring Neal. "Will it work?"

The jammer was two inches wide by three inches long, and a half-inch thick. Aidan picked it up, weighing it in his hand. "Very lightweight. Impressive. If I didn't want the public to know I was using it, I could put it inside almost anything."

Travis nodded in agreement. "This should suit your purposes very well. The power switch is on the side. The range is ten feet, with enough battery life to last eight hours."

"Have you tested it with the anklet Athos provided?" Richard asked.

"Yes, and it performed flawlessly," Travis said. "The device can be programmed for any signal. Aidan will have no difficulty in modifying it to any signal he chooses."

 "This will be my best creation yet," Aidan said with a grin. "I'm sure I'll be given the green light to develop it for the exhibition."

"We should celebrate," Neal added. "Travis, you haven't been to the Roaring Lion. My treat."

"That's not right," Richard objected. "This has nothing to do with you. Aidan should pay."

"Nah, he paid last time," Neal said. "I owe him."

Travis jumped in. "I want to pay. Call it my initiation into the band."

"Let's make it easy," Neal said. "I'll flip a coin."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Not bad," said Travis, "but at the University of Texas, not only did we put the TARDIS on the roof of a building, but afterwards we directed it by means of its alien technology to transport itself overnight to the lawn of the President's house. Unquestionably a superior hack."

The four of them were heading back to Prentis for band rehearsal after a very satisfactory feast at the Roaring Lion, paid for, naturally, by Neal who had no trouble in winning the coin toss. Aidan and Travis had spent the past thirty minutes comparing undergrad hacks, which Neal suspected were being wildly overblown. Nevertheless, he was beginning to seriously regret having missed out on undergraduate life.

When they arrived at the rehearsal room, Neal introduced Travis to the remaining members of the group.

"I'd noticed the drum equipment and was hoping that hadn't been left by another group," Fiona said, clearly delighted to have Travis join them.

"Don't get too excited," Travis warned. "It's been years since I played and digital drums will be a new experience."

"No need to stress," Michael assured him. "I was a rank beginner when I started—"

"And now look at him—he's a tambourine virtuoso," Keiko finished for him, her eyes bright with merriment.

"Need any help setting up the drums?" Richard asked. "We used digital drums in a jazz ensemble I played with."

Rehearsal started a little late to give Travis time to experiment with the drums. Neal took advantage of the delay to pull Fiona aside. "Sorry again about having to cancel our date last night. Work interfered."

"Our jobs aren't making it easy on us, are they? Isn't there a law against the FBI forcing you to work on a Saturday night?"

Neal shook his head. "I wish."

It's okay. You don't have to explain. I'm getting used to the weird schedules you're required to keep for your undercover ops. You secret agents are all alike."

"Oh, and how many other secret agents do you know?" Neal challenged her with a grin.

"Hey, a girl needs to keep her own mysteries," Fiona replied, tossing her hair back. "Seriously, though, it was probably for the best you weren't free. I was beat after working the auction all day. I heard you turned in the star performance at the fencing match. I wish I could have seen it."

"The guys were all good. The gym was so packed you might not have gotten a seat. If you're interested, we'll be competing again in two weeks." Neal was surprised to hear himself say that. A few days ago he would have placed the odds of continuing at Columbia at slim to none. But now he was making plans for the future as if it were a done deal. _Careful, Caffrey. Don't jinx it._

"I'd like that," Fiona said. "Weatherby's promised me I won't have to work Saturdays in December. I'm holding them to it." She tilted her head and eyed him speculatively. "Any chance the FBI could give you some Saturdays off?"

"I think I could persuade them," Neal said with a smile.

"Could you two manage to pull yourselves away to join us?" Richard called out. "Let's get this rehearsal started."

**Prentis Hall, Columbia University. November 22, 2004. Monday morning.**

Aidan, Richard, and Travis returned to their jobs on Monday morning. Their work was done. Today it was up to Neal to set the con in motion. He'd soon know if their work had paid off. In less than an hour he'd be off-grid.

Mozzie showed up promptly at eight o'clock. He would stay at Aidan's studio at Prentis and transmit the decoy signal while Neal was away. They'd decided on Prentis as the least risky of the options. Unlike Neal's own studio at Watson, anyone visiting Prentis would need to sign in. That would give Mozzie enough time to hide in the basement. They'd then have to cook up some tale about Neal working in another part of the building and missing the visitor notification. But the chance of someone from the FBI dropping in was slim. When Peter checked the tracker information, he wouldn't be surprised about Neal being in Prentis. By now Fowler would have found that NYPD wasn't in possession of the earrings. Peter would probably think Neal was simply taking advantage of the extra security at Prentis.

Neal planned to make use of the tunnels while on campus to elude anyone tailing him. His destination was the Chelsea Fencing Club, where he'd arranged to meet André, using his Gary Rydell alias.

"You know, this really isn't up to my standards," Mozzie complained, as he opened a large bag. "Aidan doesn't even have a wine rack. How can he work without the essentials of life?"

"I know what an imposition this is. I'm very appreciative."

"Fortunately, I came equipped." Mozzie pulled out a couple of bottles plus enough food to last the entire day.

"You do realize I'll be back within three hours, right?"

Mozzie chose to ignore that remark. "Did you talk with Richard?"

"Yes, he'll have my phone. When you call him, he'll come to the tunnel and alert me. You clear on the timing for this evening?"

"At 8:45 p.m. I'll turn on the emitter and you'll begin jamming your signal. That will give a sufficient overlap when you're still at your seminar."

"Yes and you won't be beyond range till 9:00 p.m."

"I have an appropriately convoluted route to take to Regnier's. Obfuscation will be my _raison d'être_."

"When I head for the tunnels—"

"Peter will be at home, monitoring. When he sees the signal, he will, of course, call the marshals and join the manhunt —"

"which Fowler will overhear. I expect Tramonte's told Fowler to keep him informed of my movements. Someone like Tramonte will want to verify that I'm at Regnier's tonight. His type is very predictable."

"Which tunnel will you use?"

"I've picked a location close to the library. So if the marshals look for me here, I'll be able to surface and meet them. Richard will be working at the library and will alert me if anyone shows up."

"Neal, this is brilliant. Almost as good as if I'd planned it myself. You have done well, grasshopper."

"I learned from the master," Neal said with a happy grin. "I'm sorry about your safe house though."

Mozzie brushed it off. "Don't worry about it. I was thinking that Friday had reached its expiration date anyway. I have a new one already picked out to replace it. How will you manage being in the tunnel for hours?"

"Not a problem. I'll take my laptop and work on my paper for Egyptian art. I figure the tomb-like setting will inspire me."

Neal took out the devices from a drawer and handed the emitter to Mozzie.

Mozzie looked at him wryly. "Nothing like on the job testing. I wish we could've had a trial run."

"It wasn't possible. Going off-grid even for a second would have given the marshals cause for suspicion."

"You ready?"

Neal took a breath. "Yeah. Let's do it." He held up the jammer while Mozzie put his finger on the cell phone power button. "With the chip Aidan put into the cell phone, when you turn it on, it should duplicate my anklet signal. Once I turn on the jammer, the signal the Marshals receive will be transmitted by your cell phone."

 Mozzie nodded. "On your signal."

Neal pointed to Mozzie as he turned on the jammer. Aside from the power LEDs coming on for both devices, nothing happened.

"That was anticlimactic," Mozzie said, giving voice to both their feelings. "How do you know they're working?"

"I don't. Wish me luck."

"You'll be fine," Mozzie said confidently as he settled into a chair and pulled out a copy of _The Scarlet Pimpernel_.

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks to my awesome beta reader Penna Nomen for suggesting the title of the book Mozzie was reading. He's still looking for that perfect cape to finish off his ensemble, but in the meantime, the preparatory work is done and Neal's ready to go off-grid. The action picks up next week in Chapter 11: A Gascon and Cupid._


	11. A Gascon and Cupid

_Notes: Spoilers for the movie To Catch a Thief_

* * *

**Columbia University. November 22, 2004. Monday morning.**

Having left Mozzie at Aidan's studio with the duplicate signal emitter, Neal headed south to the main campus. A cold, raw wind was whipping off the Hudson River, making his eyes water. Keeping his head down, he walked quickly and ducked into the first available tunnel on 120th Street. He hadn't spotted anyone tailing him but didn't want to take any avoidable risks. Today was too important.

As he slipped into lightweight black coveralls, Neal reviewed his plan. He would stay in the tunnels for the length of the campus and exit south of 114th Street from a branch tunnel he'd discovered last Thursday. Using the tunnels required a great deal more time than walking above ground and he'd built into the schedule a comfortable cushion. Campus authorities were constantly adding locks, security cameras, and even magnetic strips on windows to prevent would-be explorers. Not that any of their measures would be effective against him, but they could require more time to elude.

In addition, Neal had made an allowance for a side trip. His destination was not far from where he'd entered the tunnel. In a rocky nook under the north campus was the shrine of tunnel explorers, the so-called Signature Room. Every serious tunneler had inscribed his tag in the nook. Mozzie had left his there on Saturday but Neal hadn't left one yet. Slipping underneath a pipe and squirming through the crawlspace, he entered the Signature Room. He first stopped to scan the north wall for a signature he'd discovered on a previous trip. Scrawled in a corner about six feet up was: _E.C_. The _C_ had been written with a distinctive tail, and Neal was convinced that his grandfather, Edmund Caffrey, had made that tag. Once his name was cleared, Neal planned to ask him about it.

Mozzie had drawn his own tag, a large dot surrounded by three roughly concentric circles, on the west wall. Neal had asked him about its significance and he claimed it to be an Australian shamanistic symbol for honey. Evidently, the shamans didn't have a symbol for wine. Neal took out a blue broad tip marker and in a blank area above Mozzie's tag he added his own—a series of calligraphic flourishes representing a fast-moving cloud. Stepping back, he admired it with satisfaction for a moment. He'd incorporated Edmund's stroke into one of the flourishes. That would be his good luck charm for the day. But if the day were going to be a success, he had no more time to linger.

Neal had already explored the route so well that he made fast progress through the tunnels. He was pleased that no additional security measures requiring extra care had been implemented since his last visit. The final tunnel, which led to 114th Street, was one of the lost tunnels and the oldest he'd ever encountered. The walls were made of brick, crumbling with age and coated with an accumulation of soot, mold, and other detritus. At its terminus, the wall was in extremely poor condition. Many of the bricks had disintegrated, revealing a blackened plaster surface beyond. During his initial exploration, Neal had tapped on the plaster and it sounded tantalizingly hollow, perhaps indicative of an extension beyond, but further exploration would require specialized equipment.

Neal slipped behind a beam and exited into an abandoned subway side tunnel. Once there, he removed his coveralls and placed them along with his headlamp in the small backpack he was carrying. Making his way through the subway tunnel, Neal approached the entrance of the IRT local line. The rumbling clatter of subway cars was a welcome sound to his ears after the eerie quiet of the tunnels. Flattening himself behind a beam, he waited till a passing train obscured his presence and then joined the crowd on the subway platform. Neal sprinted up the stairs to the street and hailed a taxi for the ride down to the Chelsea Fencing Club on the Lower West Side and his meeting with André Renard.

The taxi drove south along Riverside Drive. Once it passed June's mansion, Neal knew he was out of his legally allowed range. The marshals had restricted him to a tight area between Columbia and the mansion, and this was his first time to venture outside those boundaries. Slanting an eye at his anklet, he saw the LED sensor change, first to yellow and then red. Neal could feel the rush of adrenaline it provoked. Was the jammer working? If it was performing correctly, the signal from the anklet was being canceled out. If not, well, he'd soon have the marshals on his tail. Neal went over his contingency plans one more time. What were the odds he could convince the marshals it had been an innocent mistake? Neal started concocting scenarios. Death in the family. Onslaught of a tropical fever. Could he fake malaria?

By the time the taxi dropped him off at the fencing club, Neal had relaxed. No sirens, no police in hot pursuit. For a moment it had seemed like old times, on the lookout for the police after he'd pulled a heist. Hopefully this excursion down memory lane was a one-shot occurrence.

Neal had set up the meeting for ten o'clock. The lounge, as expected, was quiet that time of day, with only a few customers. André was already there, an espresso by his side, reading a copy of a French newspaper. He'd chosen a table by the windows overlooking Tenth Avenue. Not quite a sidewalk café, but given the cold outside, a more than adequate substitute.

Neal ordered an espresso and joined him at his table. "Salut, André! Where did you find _Le Figaro_?"

"There's an international newsstand on 23rd Street, mon ami," André said, folding up his newspaper. "If I'm feeling homesick, I can indulge. A miserable day outside, non? It's a pleasure to have an excuse to sit inside with a cup of coffee and visit with you. But you must satisfy my curiosity. Why did you ask for a meeting? You were very vague on the telephone."

Neal took a sip of his espresso. "André, I need your help."

André sat back and arched an eyebrow. "With fencing I assume."

Neal shrugged. "I'm facing a new opponent, someone who requires a deft touch and a different style of attack than I normally use."

André looked at him thoughtfully. "Do I know this fencer?"

 "You're much more familiar with him than I am. His name is Luigi Tramonte."

"Not him!" A disapproving frown crossed André's face. "Gary, I've already warned you to stay away from him. The man cannot be trusted and is too treacherous to conduct any kind of business with."

"I wish I could, but he's made it unavoidable. You remember the theft of Marie Antoinette's earrings and my suspicions that Tramonte had stolen them? Now he's trying to pin the theft on a friend of mine, Neal Caffrey."

"Neal Caffrey? I've heard of him . . . Isn't he the one who used to work with the Leopard in Geneva?"

"Yes, that's him. Did you meet him there?"

"No, our paths didn't cross, but his reputation as an art forger and thief is impressive."

"We became friends in Geneva. I've helped him fence numerous items and we've kept in contact. Neal is also in New York now. He came to me this weekend, desperate for help. He told me that Tramonte is working with the FBI to entrap him and throw him in prison."

"So … Tramonte continues to hurt people," André exhaled slowly. "Conspiring with the FBI, though, that is a new low. I wonder what pressure they're using. Or, possibly, for enough money, he could be persuaded. The man has no morals. He would sell out anyone for the right price. I regret deeply the trouble your friend is in."

"Tramonte needs to be stopped. As long as he runs free, he's a danger to potentially anyone. Who knows who he'd sell out next? Neal and I have developed a plan to turn the tables on Tramonte. Would you be willing to help us?"

André shook his head slowly. "I avoid this type of situation. My motto is to keep on the good side of everyone and not make enemies, especially with someone like Tramonte."

André's reaction was disappointing but not a surprise. Neal had already decided not to force it. Tramonte was too dangerous. If André's heart wasn't it, he wouldn't be able to carry it off and could wind up getting hurt himself. "I understand, André. It was presumptuous of me to—"

André held up a hand. "I didn't say no. Please allow me to continue. You quite possibly saved my life when Keller wanted to blame me for that failed robbery in Geneva. If you hadn't jumped in, I might not be here now. I know you wouldn't ask this of me unless this Neal was someone very important to you. So, yes I will help you."

"Are you sure? Would you rather have more time to think about it?"

André drained his espresso and put down the cup. "It's time to act. Tramonte has brought this upon himself."

"You don't know how much this means to me," Neal said gratefully. "Thank you, André."

André regarded him affectionately. "I believe I understand completely. We cannot choose who we fall in love with, mon ami."

"Wait, I don't—"

André cut him off. "No need to be embarrassed, Gary. I didn't know you were inclined that way, but I'm pleased that you've found someone. That's very difficult in our business. So many of us have no one to share our lives with. Neal must be very special. You are to be congratulated." André beamed at Neal.

Okay, that wasn't planned. But André was looking so happy for him that if he wanted to think that Gary and Neal had found true love, he guessed he could go along. "Neal was hoping you'd agree and to show his appreciation, has made an arrangement which I think will please you. You'd like to return to Paris, wouldn't you?"

"But of course, but I've been away for so many years, decades more accurately, that it's very difficult. I have few contacts. New York is expensive, but Paris is . . ." André gave an expressive Gallic shrug.

"What if I could assure your entry into Gordon Taylor's crew?"

"Gordon Taylor?" André stared at Neal in disbelief. "How could you possibly arrange that?"

"A friend of Neal's has already spoken to Gordon about you. Have you ever heard of someone named Mozzie?"

"Mozzie …" André stroked his chin. "Rumors only. To be frank, I thought he was perhaps only a legend. Some of the stories about him seem quite unbelievable."

"Oh, he's very real, I promise you. You'll like him. Mozzie is willing to act as your go-between with Gordon in appreciation for your help with Tramonte. He was planning to leave for Paris in a few days for a job with Gordon and would be happy for your company."

A wide smile diffused over André's face. "Gary, I don't know what to say. Your Neal must indeed be a wonderful person to inspire such friendships."

"For your assistance with Tramonte, it's the least we can do. Now here's what we have in mind . . ."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal left the fencing club at eleven and caught a taxi to return to Columbia. André had assured him he would schedule a meeting with Tramonte as quickly as possible. They were hoping for this afternoon, but if that didn't work, Tuesday.

Neal was anxious to move forward. By now Tramonte must realize that the NYPD didn't have the earrings after all, and he would be focused on stealing them back. Neal had no delusions about what methods the Sicilian would use on him to regain the earrings. He was close to becoming as paranoid as Mozzie, seeing Tramonte behind every corner, lurking in every alleyway.

And then there was Fowler: that was the greatest mystery of all. What would he try next? Would he go ahead and arrest him? Throw him in prison? Or would he get fed up and try to kill him himself? Why was Fowler doing this? One dark thought led to another. Neal exited the taxi, having succeeded in thoroughly depressing himself. When his phone buzzed, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Peter, what's up?"

"You busy?"

"Not particularly."

"I see you're at Prentis. Thought I'd come by and have lunch. I have some news. Nothing too dramatic, but we're making progress."

This was fortuitous. Neal had some information he needed to get across to Peter. He'd no sooner made arrangements with him to meet at Café 212 in the student center, when André called.

"It's on, mon ami. Two o'clock."

"Thanks, André. You'll let me know how it goes?"

"But of course. Tell Neal not to be concerned. Tramonte is no fencer. He'll make an easy opponent."

More good news awaited Neal at Prentis Hall. Mozzie had encountered no unexpected visitors during Neal's absence and had spent a quiet morning. With both the emitter and jammer now having passed their road test, all systems were go for tonight. Mozzie took off shortly afterwards for the Diamond District to retrieve the diamond while Neal headed to the student center for lunch with Peter. After lunch Neal would return to Prentis to finish the ring.

When he arrived at the café, Peter hadn't shown up yet. Neal's nerves were too much on edge to feel like eating anything, but Peter would probably give him grief if he only had coffee, so he ordered a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Since the café was already filling up, he went ahead and claimed possession of a table.

Neal slapped on a carefree expression when he saw Peter walking in shortly afterwards and gave him a wave to join him. "So, how's life at the Bureau? People miss me?"

"It's like a tomb now," Peter said with a theatrical sigh. "Everyone's falling asleep. We gotta get you back."

"I'm working on that."

"I know you are. I don't suppose there's anything you'd like to share with me about that?"

Neal shrugged.

"Can't blame me for trying," Peter said, looking decidedly wistful. "The news I mentioned? Hughes heard back from OPR. They've reassigned Fowler and have put someone new on your case—Manuel Barrios."

"It's hard to be very enthusiastic about it, Peter. I don't see how this is of much help."

"Barrios is a good man with an excellent record at the Bureau. He'll treat you fairly. Hughes had a long conversation with the Assistant Director about Fowler. Late last week the AD had met with Fowler. Told him that that he was troubled by the lack of additional evidence and was considering taking you off the anklet."

"You think that's why Fowler tried to frame me at the gym?"

Peter nodded. "It's possible. He didn't want to take the chance you could be cleared. But it blew up in his face. Your case is scheduled to be reviewed the week after Thanksgiving. It probably would have happened this week but for the holiday."

Neal supposed he should be more interested in hearing about the review, but it seemed very much beside the point. If the con failed, he'd very likely have to take the plane with Mozzie and André to avoid arrest.

"We're also monitoring Tramonte round the clock. You're being careful, right?"

"Yeah. Still living on campus. Got the Campus Police if Tramonte tries anything."

Peter apparently wasn't buying his efforts to project confidence. "You're looking a little frayed around the edges," he commented.

"Point noted. I'll try to keep myself from further unraveling." How much should he tell Peter? He wished he could bring him in, but he couldn't tell him about André. The plans for tonight all hinged on the illegal use of his monitor. If Peter knew, and something went wrong, he could go down too. No, it was better to keep Peter out of it. They could laugh about it at Christmas. . . .

 "You're being very quiet," Peter said, rousing him from his thoughts.

"Just wondering if you've had time to go to Regnier's for the exhibition?"

"Why, no, Neal. Been a little busy lately. Should I have?"

"That ring of Marie Antoinette they're exhibiting is spectacular. One of a kind. Beautiful blue heart-shaped diamond. You should at least check out the photo."

"Good to know. Anything else you'd like to tell me?" Peter had put down his sandwich and was regarding him expectantly.

Neal cleared his throat. "I've had some free time lately, been watching TV. There's a good movie on tonight you might like."

"What's that? I'd like to hear about it."

" _To Catch a Thief_. Cary Grant, Grace Kelly. You'd enjoy it. Tale of a retired cat burglar named John Robie who's framed for a robbery he didn't commit."

"That sounds oddly familiar."

"Doesn't it though?"

"You may be surprised to hear it's one of my favorite movies," Peter remarked. "I've always thought the masquerade was handled particularly well. Do you remember that part? Where during a masquerade ball a friend of the thief wears Robie's costume so that Robie can escape capture? His costume of a Moor reminds me a little of your fencing attire. It would be an easy means to disguise one's appearance."

"Hmm, you have a point. I should try that sometime. There's one part of the movie I thought they didn't handle so well."

"What's that?"

"When the cat burglar cleans out the jewel boxes in the mansion, the producer didn't take advantage of the dramatic potential of a jewel box."

"Is that so? Enlighten me."

"If I'd been making the movie, I would have placed a false bottom in one of the boxes, which would have concealed an even greater treasure. Similar to a Fabergé egg surprise, a treasure within a treasure. That would have added much greater dramatic impact."

"Interesting point," Peter said looking unusually reflective. "Any other scenes I should watch for?"

"I probably missed some things. Why don't you stay up tonight and watch it? You might find unexpected revelations. I'd hate for you to go to bed and miss all the action."

Peter sat back in his chair and scrutinized Neal who offered up his most guileless smile in return. "In that movie, Robie had some friends helping him. Do you recall any advice he should have given to those friends and didn't?"

"He was lucky to have friends who believed in him. Robie probably should have been more open in telling them not to be upset when it looked like everything was crashing around him. That he had a plan. Instead they needed to focus on the true thief."

"And his friends probably would have reminded him not to go it alone and rely on them more."

"Peter, I'm counting on you to do your full duty. Monitor me scrupulously. Who knows? You may finally get your chance to catch me."

**Mona Lisa Hotel. Little Italy. November 22, 2004. Monday afternoon.**

At two o'clock André Renard entered the modest hotel in Little Italy where Luigi Tramonte had rented an efficiency. Tramonte had sounded pleased to receive his call. When André knocked at his door, Tramonte was effusive in his greeting.

"André, I'm delighted you called. Come, you must join me in a drink. Something to take the chill off." Tramonte went over to the impromptu bar he'd set up in the kitchenette. "Campari, if I remember correctly?"

"Perfect, merci." André sat down at the table. Tramonte had not changed much over the years—he was no longer a skinny kid but his hair was just as dark. When he was younger, he'd looked a little like Gary Rydell, but his eyes were too shifty, his voice too unctuous. He had none of Gary's charm and sincerity. This was a man who could slit your throat with a smile on his face.

They spent a few minutes talking about joint acquaintances and previous jobs. With Tramonte, starting slow was the best approach to the attack. No need to jam it. Lure him into taking the first lunge. By letting him set the agenda, André was dismantling his defenses in advance. Tramonte's counter-attack would be rendered ineffective.

"So, tell me more about this investment opportunity you mentioned on the phone," Tramonte said, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Yesterday I was contacted by someone whom I'd not seen in years. He had an interesting proposition for me, which I thought would intrigue you. He plans to rob Regnier's Jewelers to steal the Marie Antoinette ring currently being exhibited there. Are you familiar with the ring?"

"Yes, I'd checked it out. In fact I'd thought of going for it myself, but when I studied the store security, I decided it wasn't worth the risk. That place is a fortress. Who would be crazy enough to attempt that?"

"This kid is as brash as they come and also, more importantly, has the skill to pull it off. His name is Neal Caffrey. Have you heard of him?"

Tramonte darted a quick glance at him. "I've never met him, but am familiar with his reputation. You're right. He may be just the person to succeed."

"I knew him in Geneva when he was getting started. That was after you'd moved away. He's a rare talent but is also exceptionally foolish. It's been painful to watch him self-destruct. His bad judgment ruins his potential for greatness. This is yet another example. Caffrey has gotten himself into some sort of trouble with the law. He has federal officials on his tail and plans to flee the country. He's already squandered his reserve so needs a quick influx of funds. He told me of his plans and asked my help in fencing the ring."

"Ah, a misguided youth." Tramonte clucked his tongue in disapproval.

"Exactly, but I would like to help him."

"You've always been so kind," Tramonte murmured.

"As you know, a piece like that is extremely hard to sell. It's too well-known. That is why I came to you. With your connections, I thought you might perhaps be able to fence it. I would gladly split the proceeds with you."

It only took a moment for Tramonte to consider his proposition. "As it turns out, I may indeed know of someone who would be interested."

"You do? Ours is such a close friendship, Luigi, if you know of someone, I could go ahead and advance Caffrey the cash and then we could share the profit from the sale."

"Yes, I think we might be able to come to an understanding," Tramonte said as he stroked his upper lip. "When will you meet him?"

"Tonight."

"That soon?"

"He's convinced he must act immediately to avoid arrest. He's going to steal the ring tonight and take it to a safe house. Unfortunately, I have a prior commitment and can only meet him there later to pick up the ring and transfer the funds. He thinks the feds will be too hot on his trail to stay around so he'll lock it in a safe and then lead the police on a merry chase. He's an expert on the art of eluding the enemy. He'll circle back at one o'clock to meet me at the safe house. Once he has his money, he'll be on his way."

"Would you like me to meet you there?" Tramonte offered. "I could assist with the fund transfer and verification?"

"I would be very appreciative, Luigi," André said with a grateful smile. "That hour of the night, in an unfamiliar area, I would be grateful for your assistance." _Good, a feint worthy of Gary. Luigi didn't even notice the_ _dépassement,_ André thought to himself as he discussed the details of where to meet. Luigi was ever the gracious host, pouring him another drink and reminiscing about old times.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Renard left, Tramonte crossed his hands behind his head and broke out in laughter. The old fool. He knew there was a reason he'd continued to maintain his friendship with him. Renard was as gullible as ever. When Tramonte had first worked with him he couldn't believe how easy it was to deceive him, and he hadn't changed a bit. Tramonte had often been sorely tempted to stop wasting his time on maintaining relations with him. What a mistake that would have been. Now it was payoff time, and his haul would be unbelievable.

Serving him Caffrey with the Marie Antoinette ring on a silver platter … He really should send Renard a thank you card. Pouring himself a grappa to celebrate, Tramonte sat back in his chair and made his plans. Could he milk this even more? First he'd stolen the earrings and sold them to Bolotnov. Then Fowler paid him to steal them back from the FBI vault, afterwards offering him still more to plant them on Caffrey. Tramonte hadn't dreamed his gamble on the Marie Antoinette earrings would pay such huge dividends. Could he do the same with the ring?

Tramonte called Fowler. "How much are you willing to pay to have Caffrey discovered to be the thief behind a second robbery?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I can make sure that he's incriminated in a robbery at Regnier's this evening. How much?"

Fowler didn't reply right away. Tramonte laughed to himself. Now he was learning just how powerful Luigi Tramonte was. Fowler finally blurted out, "How did you . . .? At Regnier's?"

"A small sample of what I'm capable of, Fowler. Time you start appreciating me more."

"Regnier's hasn't ever been broken into. You sure about this?"

"Caffrey can do it. He has the skill and the balls. But he's an innocent. Raw talent but no understanding of how the real world works. He'll be an easy mark."

"Full evidence?"

"Guaranteed."

"I could probably come up with forty grand."

"Make that a hundred. Fifty in advance. The rest afterwards."

There was a long pregnant silence on the other end. Tramonte didn't mind waiting. Fowler was in the bag. He heard an exhale and then Fowler came back on. "All right. I think I can get approval. You're certain?"

"Positive. Get the money to me this afternoon. You still monitoring Caffrey?"

"I've been taken off the case but I still can access the data."

"Keep a close watch this evening. Keep me informed of his movements."

After Fowler hung up, Tramonte felt so good, he poured himself another drink. Caffrey was worth far more to him alive than dead. He could work with that. He'd steal the diamond from the safe but leave the setting in place. He'd alert Fowler when he was ready to leave, so the police would be waiting for Caffrey when he showed up. Maybe he should warn Caffrey at the last minute so he could escape and then Tramonte could trap him again? How long could he play it out? Originally he'd planned to head back to Europe this week, but no need to be hasty. Caffrey probably had the earrings. And although he was a skilled thief, he was no G.I. Joe. Breaking him would be a cinch. Tramonte stroked his chin, salivating at the prospect. Grab him, work him over . . . He'd have him singing in an hour.

Tramonte raised his glass. "Here's to you, Caffrey. My goose with the golden egg."

 

* * *

_Notes:  I've pinned illustrations of Mozzie and Neal's tags on The Queen's Jewels board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. There's also a video of a tour through the actual Columbia tunnels which shows the Signature Room._

_Neal's made Peter a part of his crew and Peter is forcing himself to accept not being fully informed. This new level of trust between Neal and Peter is partly because of the experiences they went through last summer in Penna Nomen's Caffrey Disclosure. Currently in both our stories Neal wishes he could reveal more._


	12. Queen's Gambit

**White Collar Division. November 22, 2004. Monday afternoon.**

"How much do we know about André Renard?" Peter asked.

It was late afternoon. Jones had joined him in his office. Tramonte had not left his hotel all day. A man had been photographed arriving at Tramonte's hotel at two o'clock. The bug they'd placed at the reception desk picked up that he'd inquired about Tramonte's room number, and facial recognition software had been able to identify him.

"Cat burglar. Not well known here but Interpol has a thick file about him." Jones scanned through his printout. "Art, jewelry heists mainly. Nothing violent. He lived in Geneva between 1985 and 2004. Arrived in New York only a few months ago."

"Is there any connection between him and Tramonte?"

"Nothing has turned up, but Tramonte was also in Geneva for two years beginning in 1987. It's possible the two met then. The guy's supposedly an expert fencer.''

Peter raised a brow. "Are we talking blades or goods?"

Jones grinned. "Blades. I checked with the Chelsea Fencing Club where Neal hangs out as Gary Rydell, and Renard's a member."

What was Neal up to? He'd given tantalizing clues over lunch but Peter still knew none of the details. Was Renard his contact at the club? If so, was he now working with Neal or against him?

After Jones left, Peter checked Neal's tracking data. Still at Prentis. Peter chuckled. That tracking anklet had its advantages. He could easily get used to being able to find out where Neal was all the time. Picking up his phone, Peter placed the call. When Neal answered, he got straight to the point. "Do you trust a man named André Renard?"

There was silence on the other end. Peter could hear the wheels in Neal's mind turning, debating how to handle this. "Yes, I do," he finally said.

"You may be interested to learn he met with Tramonte this afternoon, or perhaps you already know this."

"Don't worry about André. He's the fencer I told you about and a friend."

"Just so you know, we're keeping Tramonte under close surveillance tonight."

"Thank you, Peter. That's very reassuring."

Peter sighed when he hung up the phone. He was glad one of them was feeling reassured. Would it be too much to ask for Neal fill him in on why? If this mess ever got resolved, he planned to sit Neal down and have a long discussion about the need to communicate what the hell was going on. Vague references to movies were simply not cutting it.

Peter got up from his desk in frustration and stood looking out the window, his hands on his hips. It hadn't been that long ago—only last summer when Neal was flying around the country looking for Henry and Henry's father—that Peter had insisted on phone check-ins at six- and sometimes three-hour intervals. Now he'd basically signed off on Neal going rogue.

For the past several days, Peter had reined in his desire to supervise Neal more closely by lecturing himself that the unusual circumstances required the change. He'd told himself that if he pushed harder, he'd drive Neal away. But now Neal was clearly alerting Peter that the hour was at hand for whatever scheme he'd cooked up to be put in motion. The fact that Peter knew next to nothing about it was making the situation intolerable.

Peter rubbed the side of his neck. It wasn't simply that he was concerned about Neal being foolhardy, which he undoubtedly was. The plain and simple truth was that he, Special Agent "By the Book" Peter Burke, wanted to be a part of that cockeyed scheme right beside him.

At six o'clock as Peter was preparing to leave, Diana poked her head in. "Got a call from Jones, boss. He took over surveillance from Travis on Tramonte. One guess who just paid Tramonte a visit."

"Fowler."

"You got it."

Peter's eyes narrowed. What was Fowler up to now? Was this a result of Renard's visit? Fowler had been taken off the case. Was he so desperate, he was going to take extreme measures? Reaching for his phone, Peter called Neal to warn him.

**Burke residence. November 22, 2004. Monday evening.**

Monday night football was on the TV and the Jets were winning, but Peter ignored the action on the field. He'd brought home a stack of files and was working at the dining room table. His laptop with Neal's tracker information was at his right-hand side. Just as well El had to work that night. He didn't like keeping secrets from her, but he couldn't bring her in on what might be going down tonight. Diana had joined Jones in conducting surveillance on Tramonte. Travis was scheduled to relieve them at midnight.

A bone-chilling, steady rain had settled in and was expected to last throughout the evening. Would the weather be a factor in whatever Neal was planning? Peter had checked the TV listings when he got home and wasn't surprised that he didn't find _To Catch a Thief_ scheduled. To see that, he needed to watch his laptop.

The tracker software displayed Neal's location superimposed on a map of Manhattan. It was amazingly precise. Peter could tell that Neal was at Schermerhorn Hall and could have zoomed in on the location within the building. On Monday nights Neal had a seminar on Dutch baroque painting. That lasted till nine o'clock. Peter didn't expect anything to happen till afterwards, but kept an eye on the display just in case. That turned out to be a good thing, because at 8:45 Neal was on the move. Sherkov's seminars usually ran over. Peter had attended one on an earlier case and knew it was Neal's favorite course. For him to leave early, something must be up.

Peter got out his coat and placed it by the door, checking his pockets for phone and car key. He gave up even the pretense of working on his files and watched Neal's monitor with the fascination usually only reserved for the World Series. At 9:00 Neal's signal was right at the edge of his radius which had been marked in a yellow grid overlaid on the map. At 9:05 he moved outside his radius, and Peter picked up the phone.

The marshals were already preparing to head out when Peter got through to them. Neal apparently was in a taxi as his signal was moving rapidly. Just as Peter finished his conversation with the marshals on the landline, Manuel Barrios called him on his cell. Barrios was the OPR agent now in charge of Neal's case and would be coordinating the manhunt. As a result of Hughes's discussion with OPR on Saturday, Peter was to be notified whenever action against Neal was taken. Barrios agreed to rendezvous with Peter in Manhattan. They'd ride together in Barrios's car which had been equipped with the latest GPS tracker navigation display.

As he left the house, Peter muttered, "Hope you enjoyed that, Fowler. I'm counting on that being the last time you ever hear anything on my phone."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter and Barrios followed Neal to Columbus Circle where his signal stalled. After five minutes it started to move again but at a crawl. He must have gotten out of the taxi and was proceeding on foot. Why Columbus Circle? It was a major subway and bus hub. Was Neal going underground? The marshals were drawing closer and had nearly reached his signal when he sped off again. The general direction was toward the southeast but not along the lines of a subway or bus route. He must be in a taxi again. The rain was falling harder now, making driving conditions difficult. The people on the streets were carrying umbrellas and bundled up in winter clothes. It was almost impossible to identify anyone.

Peter's phone rang. It was Jones. "Tramonte left his hotel about ten minutes ago. We're tailing him and will keep you posted."

Barrios chased Neal down Broadway and then up Madison Avenue. At 52nd Street he apparently got out of a taxi again.

"We're almost on top of him. We should be able to see him," Barrios said in frustration. They slowed to a crawl, ignoring the honks of irate taxi drivers. They were accompanied by marshals driving SUVs emblazoned with their seals as well as NYPD patrol cars. Jeez, there must be at least ten vehicles now. As they proceeded up Madison Avenue, Peter kept his eyed glued to the car windows. What was Neal up to? Peter wished he could call him. How the hell could he help him without knowing what the script was?

Jones called back in. "Tramonte's in your area. He's at 55th and Madison Avenue."

Fifteen minutes later they were still playing cat and mouse. Tramonte had exited the cab at the Trump Tower on 56th Street and Fifth Avenue and gone inside.

Then it hit Peter where they were heading: Regnier's. It was located on 57th Street and Fifth Avenue. Sure enough, Neal got as far as Regnier's and stopped. Peter groaned to himself. Was this Neal's idea of a plan? Rob Regnier's and then somehow plant the evidence on Tramonte? What was he thinking?

A minute later Neal's signal dissolved into static. "Damn it!" Barrios shook the display and gave a couple of sharp slaps to the device. "Sometimes these things go on the fritz. Don't tell me it's happening now."

"Equipment malfunction always happens at the worst possible time," Peter commiserated, hiding the smile that wanted to break out. He got on the phone to the marshals to check on their status. "It's not just us. The marshals are having the same issue."

"If he'd cut the anklet, it would still be broadcasting." Barrios scratched his head. "Maybe interference?"

"Let's park by Regnier's," Peter suggested. "I can't believe Caffrey would try to pull a robbery there, but it's the most likely target in the area."

"Good idea. You'd think if he were trying to steal something, he would have cut his anklet first, but you never know. Caffrey's so young . . . the pressure may have gotten to him and he snapped. I've seen it happen before. Some guys can't stand the thought of being monitored and wind up pulling an idiotic prank. There was a fellow I was monitoring a couple of years ago. He took it in his head to visit his girlfriend. The guy was restricted to a narrow area in Queens, and he up and goes to New Jersey." Barrios shook his head. "I found him on the Jersey shore having a picnic with her. Didn't even think he'd done anything wrong. He's back in prison now."

Several of the marshals' SUVs had pulled up alongside them outside Regnier's. Peter checked with Regnier's alarm service, and there was no sign of an intruder. Police cars cruised the surrounding area as officials coordinated a blanket coverage. Every few minutes the signal would come back on only to dissolve into static a minute or so later. The signal was coming from an area about two city blocks in diameter. With the high density of shops and hotels, it was impossible to cover all the likely locations.

Barrios asked Peter to check with Travis about the tracker signal. "Sounds like the chip is malfunctioning," Travis said. "Could be a loose connection."

It was now 11:00. Despite the massive manhunt, Neal had not been captured. In the meantime, Jones had bad news. They'd lost Tramonte. He must have exited Trump Tower without being spotted.

"Caffrey's on the move!" Barrios yelled. "Heading west on 55th Street." Sirens blared as all units followed.

"Not again! Signal's out." Barrios glared at the static on the screen when they turned onto Ninth Avenue. "Haven't they heard of quality control? Has no one tested these things?"

Peter checked in with Jones. Tramonte's trail had gone cold. The units were scattering once more as they tried to locate Neal. Fifteen minutes later the signal blinked back on.

"Give me that location again," Barrios requested as he picked up speed.

"West 25th Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues."

"What's there?"

Peter checked his laptop. "Warehouses. A few tenements."

"At least the signal's steady now. We should be able to wrap this up quickly." Barrios glanced over at Peter. "I'm sorry about Caffrey. Who knows what's going on in his head?"

"Such a waste. Caffrey had such potential, and he's throwing it all away." _Neal, you better not be throwing it all away_ , Peter thought with a sigh. The way he'd led them to Regnier's, the hints about the ring and the movie, it was increasingly clear that Neal had stolen the ring and devised a con to plant it on Tramonte. It was a desperate gamble. Assuming they did manage to recover the ring, had Neal left any evidence behind at Regnier's? What were the odds he wasn't thinking straight and had snapped like the felon Barrios had mentioned? Neal's nightmare might just have gotten worse and Peter's too.

At 11:30 they pulled up in front of a building on West 25th Street and conferred with the marshals on the takedown. They agreed that Barrios and Peter would go in first while the marshals would keep watch that no one left the premises. Neal's monitor continued to broadcast steadily from one of the apartments in the five-story high building. The signal was coming from the back, either on the fourth or fifth floor.

Peter scanned the list of tenants on the building. Some offices. Most were residences. He stopped at the name of an apartment on the 5th floor. "Let's start with 509," he said. "According to the map, it's at the back. We can work our way down from there."

Barrios read the name on the plate. "Robie, huh. Okay."

Taking the elevator to the fifth floor, Peter steered Barrios back to apartment 509. The signal was steadily growing in intensity. By the time they were outside 509, it was clear they'd found Neal. Barrios reported to the marshals below and waited for several to join them before knocking on the door. When there was no answer, they quickly broke through and stormed the apartment. The front room was empty and they raced to the bedroom where they could hear the sounds of someone frantically trying to open a window.

"Hands up, Caff—" Barrios paused in shock and added, "You're not Caffrey."

"Hands up, Tramonte," Peter finished triumphantly. Tramonte was standing by one of the windows. The shade had been raised to reveal the window had a tight grill. Escape would have been impossible. While the Marshals handcuffed Tramonte and read him his rights, Peter walked over to an opened wall safe. The examination didn't take long since it was empty.

Tramonte protested, making wild gestures. Peter shrugged to his outrage. "Exigent circumstances. We're in pursuit of a fugitive and that gives us full rights, plus you were caught in the act of breaking and entering. I know for a fact your name isn't Robie."

All this time the monitor signal was still broadcasting. Ignoring Tramonte's curses, the marshals searched him. He wasn't wearing a monitor. His cell phone was examined but it wasn't the source of the signal. A jewel box was discovered in his jacket pocket. Peter went over to his raincoat which was lying on a chair and put on his latex gloves. "Here's something interesting," he said, pulling out a cell phone from one of its pockets.

Tramonte stared at it as the marshals tested it. "That's not mine. I never saw it before."

"That's what's transmitting the signal!" Barrios exclaimed. He turned off the phone. "Look, the signal's now disappeared and it's displaying from a different location, just west of Columbia University." Barrios zoomed in on the reading. "It's at Watson Hall. Tramonte's phone must have been canceling out Caffrey's signal. I've never seen that happen before."

Peter retrieved the jewel box Barrios had secreted inside his jacket. The box was made of red tooled leather and had the distinctive monogram of Regnier's Jewelers on the lid. Peter raised the lid. "Well, look at this," he said, holding up a brilliant diamond ring. "This is the Marie Antoinette diamond if I'm not mistaken."

"I didn't steal it," Tramonte hissed. "Caffrey stole it."

"Shut it, Tramonte. I don't see Caffrey here. There's just you and the ring." Peter examined the case closely. Remembering Neal's words, he pressed along the bottom lining. When he pressed the back left corner, the pad loosened, revealing a pool of sparkling diamonds inside. Barrios and Tramonte both stared wide-eyed at the discovery. A grin breaking out on his face, Peter held up the pair of Marie Antoinette earrings to the others.

Tramonte's look of stunned amazement was almost comical.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was 1 a.m. by the time the marshals regrouped at Watson Hall. When they knocked on Neal's studio door, he was painting. Clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Neal stared at the assembly of officials in front of him. "What's this all about?"

Neal had been working on a painting Peter hadn't seen before, a fanciful depiction of bicycles floating among the clouds in the sky over Manhattan.

Barrios walked up to Neal and introduced himself. "I apologize for the intrusion at this late hour, Mr. Caffrey, but your tracker may be malfunctioning. We need to verify it's working properly."

"Please call me Neal. Not a problem." Neal put his paintbrush aside and, hoisting his foot on the rung of a stool, rolled up the leg of his sweat pants. "Have at it, guys."

While the marshals checked his anklet monitor, Peter said, "You might be interested to know that Tramonte was apprehended this evening with the Marie Antoinette ring from Regnier's exhibition in his possession. The jewel case was found to also contain the Marie Antoinette earrings."

"Really?" Looking flabbergasted at the news, Neal broke out in a smile wide enough to split his face.

"Yes, I thought that would please you," Peter said with a chuckle. "And here's the funny thing. It appears that Tramonte's cell phone was transmitting the same signal as your monitor. In fact it was blocking us from receiving your signal."

"I didn't think that was possible."

"Neither did we."

The marshals finished their inspection. "All appears in order here. It's working perfectly," one of them said. "There's no evidence it's been tampered with."

Pulling out a notebook, Barrios said, "For the record, could you please go over your activities this evening."

"Sure. I attended my seminar on Dutch Baroque Art from seven to a little after nine. Afterward, I returned to my studio and have been painting ever since. Got wrapped up in my work. Didn't realize it was so late."

"Any witnesses?"

"All the participants in the seminar can confirm my presence there. As far as my being at the studio, Richard Carlisle, who has the studio next door, should be able to vouch for my being here up to around 11:30 or so. I think I heard him leave around then." Neal paused and pulled out a sketch pad from a drawer. "But there's something else you should know that may be relevant. I noticed I was being followed when I went from my studio to my class at Schermerhorn Hall. Short guy, swarthy complexion. Last I saw him he was lingering in the student lounge. He was gone when I left. I made a sketch of him." Neal ripped out a sheet of paper from his sketch pad and handed it to Barrios.

Barrios and Peter looked at the drawing. "I don't recognize him," Barrios said as Peter also shook his head, "but I'm glad you're so observant. We'll try to match it at the Bureau." Closing his notebook, Barrios added, "I believe we're done. Thank you for your cooperation, Neal. I'd rather not go into the situation now, but we'll be in contact tomorrow."

"I'd like to stay and speak with my consultant," Peter said and waited until the officials left before saying anything further. Neal began cleaning his brushes, slanting him a nervous glance. Peter went outside and checked the corridor. Having verified everyone had left, he returned to the studio and closed the door. "Did you steal the ring?"

"It's a remarkable ring, isn't it? I knew you'd like it."

"Neal . . ." Peter warned in a low growl.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, not batting an eyelash. "I've just been here painting."

Peter stepped closer. "You gonna make me shake it out of you?"

Neal's face dissolved into a big smile. "Had ya going for a minute, didn't I! No, I didn't steal the ring. I wouldn't do that to you. Besides, it's a forgery."

Shaking his head at him, Peter crushed Neal in a hug that Mama Bear El would have been proud of. "Was that the arts and crafts you were talking about on the weekend?"

Neal shrugged happily. "What was Tramonte's reaction?"

"Probably for the best I don't know Italian. Let's just leave it that he wasn't pleased. The Robie name on the apartment was a nice touch."

"I thought you'd like that." Neal perched on a stool, a look of mischief in his eyes. "Cary Grant would have been a little too obvious." Barefoot, in his t-shirt and sweats, he looked all of eighteen at a stretch. "Can you stay? We need to strategize our next steps."

Peter pulled up the extra stool. "So you've decided to include me? Am I now a member of your crew?" It was impossible not to grin back at Neal. Peter felt like he should be in a t-shirt and sweats too. The stress that had been etched in Neal's face at lunch had evaporated and taken Peter's along with it.

"You always were, but it may not have been as obvious."

Peter nodded in acknowledgment. He'd save the teasing for later. Neal wasn't home free by a long shot. "Tell me about the ring. How do you propose handling that?"

"You received the signal at Regnier's, right?"

"Yes, it looked like you'd been there about an hour."

"Any chance you'll be in charge of Tramonte's interrogation?"

"There's a good likelihood both Barrios and I will be. Tramonte's being held in isolation for now. He has no way to communicate with Fowler."

"That's good. About the ring . . . you need to understand that Tramonte believes it was stolen from Regnier's this evening."

"Can you fill me in on why he would think that?"

"Hmm." Neal propped an elbow on the work table and rested his chin on his hand. "I can think of a few possibilities. The first one involves André Renard, the fellow who was seen visiting Tramonte Monday afternoon. André is a good friend of Gary Rydell's. Gary might have given him the idea to tell Tramonte that a certain Neal Caffrey intended to steal the ring and place it in that safe. André may have let Tramonte in on it to help find a buyer." Neal hesitated. "But there's a problem with this scenario. It involves André in the case and he'd wind up in the official record."

Peter nodded. "Yes, I can understand where there would be valid reasons to keep both Gary and André off the books. Also, that scenario doesn't explain the forgery or the tracker route that was documented." Peter looked up at the ceiling as if he were pondering hypotheticals. "Here's another scenario that makes more sense. The person you saw tailing you was Tramonte's accomplice. He met up with Tramonte at Regnier's and for some reason passed him the phone. That would account for the signal pattern we observed." He turned to Neal. "How does that sound to you?"

Neal beamed. "Exactly what I was thinking. I wouldn't be at all surprised if the person tailing me was a known member of the Sicilian Mafia. He may have been aiding Tramonte all along."

"But once Regnier's verifies that the ring they have is genuine, and the one in our possession is a forgery, any explanation on what Tramonte is doing with a forgery?"

"Suppose the sketch I gave Barrios is identified to be of a known jewel thief, somebody like Paolo Vitale, for instance. Paolo is a jewel thief who operates in Italy. He might have sneaked into the country. Tramonte could have commissioned him to steal the ring. Paolo was to replace the ring at Regnier's with a forgery. Their plan was to smuggle both the ring and the earrings out of the States and sell them to Bolotnov."

Peter propped up his own elbows on the table. "Interesting theory. Fowler may have supplied Tramonte with your tracking information. One of them duplicated the signal and Vitale was to use the phone to frame you for the robbery. They wanted the robbery to be discovered and you arrested for it."

Neal nodded in agreement. "Fowler was probably paying them off to frame me. Tramonte was undoubtedly licking his lips at the prospect of being paid both by Fowler for the frame and then by Bolotnov for the jewels. But something went wrong. Perhaps the security at Regnier's proved to be too difficult and Paolo couldn't make the switch. So he decided to double-cross Tramonte by passing off the forgery as the genuine ring and planting the phone on him. He may have been worried that otherwise Tramonte would try to frame him for the botched job. I wouldn't be surprised if under those circumstances Vitale's already fled the country. He would have been paid handsomely for his part in the deal and may have decided to cut his losses, making Tramonte the fall guy. Of course, you realize Tramonte will deny all this."

"Naturally, and it will get him nowhere." Peter stroked his chin. "Carefully worded questioning might lead Tramonte to the erroneous conclusion that guards had been killed during the robbery and he would be charged with murder in addition to armed robbery."

"Yes, I can see how that might happen. If Tramonte believed he was being arrested for murder, he could be more forthcoming."

"His only hope is to make a deal by providing evidence against Fowler." Peter stretched his arms out. "I like this scenario much better than the first one. Plugs in a lot of holes. It's the one I'll use tomorrow, but I appreciate your sharing the first one with me."

The relief was evident in Neal's face. "I was hoping you'd see it that way."

Peter glanced over at Neal's gym bags. "With Tramonte locked up, there's no reason not to move back to the loft now. Like a ride back?"

Neal looked hesitant. "It's late. You don't mind the detour?"

"Hey, for this, I can miss a little sleep."

Neal grinned. "I can be ready in five minutes!"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had insisted on Peter dropping him off at the door to the mansion, saying there'd be less chance of waking June if only one went inside. As Neal closed the car door, Peter asked, "You going anywhere today?"

"No, I'm working on my paper for the Egyptian art seminar."

"It's comforting to hear you're being such a model student. I'll give you a call later on in the morning. Big day coming up."

The mansion was quiet. June must have already gone to bed. Neal gazed at the polished wood paneling of the staircase which was glowing softly in the light of the cut-glass wall sconces and nodded in satisfaction. "Welcome home," he murmured to himself.

 Mozzie was waiting for him in the loft and began uncorking a bottle of wine when he entered. "I called June with the news of our success. She'd placed this lovely Volnay at your door as a libation for our celebration."

Neal dumped his gym bags by his bed. On the nightstand was the fedora, just where he'd left it when he moved out of the loft on Saturday. He hoped it'd be a talisman for his return. With a smile, he put it back in the armoire. "June's a treasure. So tell me how it went. Sorry you had such lousy weather to be out."

"I rather enjoyed the rain. It added a film noir quality to the caper. Leading the suits on a chase through Manhattan was surprisingly pleasurable. Unfortunately my Athos hat may not be salvageable, but the rain was our benefactor. A potential flaw in the con had been the need to slip Tramonte the phone without him discovering it before the suits arrived. With the raincoat he wore, that landmine was avoided."

Neal sat down across from him at the table. "When did you put the phone in his pocket?"

"When he entered the building. The suits' timing couldn't have been better. They arrived on the scene just after he'd opened the safe. The video cams I'd installed kept me constantly aware of his progress from my location down the hall. If he'd been ahead of schedule, I was prepared to stall for time by pretending to be an irate neighbor. As it was, when the marshals knocked on the door, he was only able to take a quick look at the ring before stashing the jewel box in his pocket."

"I don't think I'll ever forget that feeling of relief when you alerted me to turn off my jammer." Neal raised his glass to him. "I'd never expected to have to ask you to help me stay with the FBI. I don't know how I can thank you properly for all you've done."

Mozzie smiled at him. "Your new life is not without its rewards. The finder's fees that I've acquired from your association with the suits have been remarkably lucrative. The fee for the Fabergé egg alone was worth it. So let the grand experiment continue a while longer. When you leave, it should be on your terms, not because you're forced out."

Neal held up a flash drive. "I do have this to express my appreciation," and he tossed it to Mozzie.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Neal nodded. "While I was waiting in the tunnels, I made you a map of all the tunnel routes I've found. This is just the beginning. We still have more to explore."

His face registering his approval, Mozzie pocketed the flash drive. "It's my prediction, the adventures of the _mousquetaires_ aren't over."

The way Richard and Aidan had taken to Mozzie, Neal suspected they'd say the same. It might be difficult to keep them apart. Taking a sip of his wine, he asked, "Have you heard anything more from Gordon Taylor?"

"He's very pleased. I'll leave shortly for _la belle France_ with André who will be a consolation prize for my not bringing you. You know Gordon asks about you whenever I see him. I'll have to tell him you're currently booked, right?"

"That's a definite yes." Neal paused and took a breath. He knew he would regret it. "You should know that André has latched on to the idea that Neal and Gary are in love."

"Really? I would have liked to have been there for that discussion."

Neal winced. "Not letting him know who I am has been tough enough. I didn't need this extra complication. Neal and Gary may have to part ways."

"Yes, their passionate love story may be of short duration." Mozzie shook his head sadly. "I was afraid that Gary would be left with a broken heart. Butterflies like Neal don't linger long at one flower before fluttering off. I'll gather a collection of appropriate odes with which to console Gary. Perhaps Keats will be a soothing balm to his wounded soul."

Neal groaned. This would be his penance, and he predicted he would be paying it for a while.

Mozzie grinned. "So, what's next?"

"I'm staying here tomorrow morning while Peter interviews Tramonte." Neal refilled his and Mozzie's glasses. "It's all in Peter's hands now."

 

* * *

_Notes: I simply couldn't have managed Neal's master con without the expert assistance of Penna Nomen. She's by far the most valuable member of Neal's crew._

_There are many Easter eggs to previous stories and canon episodes in this chapter. To name a couple, in Peter's reflections on Neal going rogue, he compares the present situation to what happened the previous summer in Caffrey Disclosure. Mozzie's reference to Neal being a butterfly comes from the Season One episode, "The Portrait."_

_Thanks for reading and your comments! I hope you join me next week for Chapter 13: Endgame, when the ball's in Peter's court._


	13. Endgame

**White Collar Division. November 23, 2004. Tuesday morning.**

Diana walked into the observation area behind the interrogation room and stood beside Jones. "Did you hear? Fowler didn't show up at work." Through the one-way glass she could see Tramonte sitting at the table. The interrogation was scheduled to start in a few minutes.

"Peter told me this morning," Jones replied. "Fowler was scheduled to be at a meeting with Barrios and the OPR Assistant Director to go over Caffrey's case. If Fowler didn't look guilty before, he sure as hell does now."

"He's not answering his phone. They called the hotel where he was staying and he checked out at three o'clock this morning. OPR better find him."

"If he doesn't report in, they'll launch a full-scale pursuit. In the meantime, we have a front row seat to watch the dismantling of Tramonte."

"I saw Peter and Barrios conferring when I walked in. Did Peter tell you about their strategy?"

"Both of them will interrogate Tramonte. Peter told me Barrios agreed to help fake Tramonte out about the robbery. With his record and lack of U.S. citizenship he should be easier to persuade."

Diana and Jones grew quiet as Peter and Barrios entered the interrogation room. Tramonte remained slouched in a chair, looking dismissive and bored. "Come to apologize?" he sneered.

Ignoring his comment, Peter and Barrios sat down and turned on the recording equipment.

"They think they've identified his accomplice," Jones said, not taking his eyes off the interrogation room. "Caffrey's sketch resembles a known associate of Tramonte, name of Paolo Vitale. Do we know how Tramonte was able to acquire information about the anklet?"

"Must have been through Fowler. I bet one of the marshals was friendly to Fowler and leaked him the details."

Peter was questioning Tramonte now. "You were found with the Smithsonian earrings and the Marie Antoinette diamond ring on you. Not only could you be charged with possession of stolen property but with armed robbery and capital murder."

Tramonte sat up straight in his chair as he jerked his head around to Peter. "Murder? What are you talking about?"

"Two guards were killed. The signal from your cell phone places you at Regnier's. You were photographed in the vicinity. With your record—what are we looking at, Barrios?"

"The murder of two guards, theft from the FBI headquarters . . . Could be life imprisonment."

"Clever," Diana said as they watched. "They're not mentioning the two guards were the ones initially killed during the heist from the truck. He thinks two guards at Regnier's were killed."

"You can't pin the FBI theft on me," Tramonte protested. "You have no proof."

"Is that right?" A slight smile crossed Barrios's face. "I believe you know Garrett Fowler?"

"To refresh your memory, he was the one photographed visiting you at your hotel both on Saturday evening and on Monday evening," Peter reminded him. "Fowler's been very cooperative about what really happened to those earrings when they were in the FBI vault."

"They got him." Jones nodded with satisfaction as he watched the proceedings. "He doesn't fully realize it yet, but it's game over."

"I bet Caffrey will be back by this afternoon."

"Praise the lord. You'll have someone else to pick on."

"Aw, poor boy. Don't gloat too soon." Diana smiled wickedly. "I may take it easy on Neal for a while, perhaps two full days. Seriously though, I wonder how tough it will be for him to come back after everything that went on."

"The FBI got one helluva black eye from this," Jones agreed. "But I overheard Peter scheming with Travis. I think they're cooking something up."

**Neal's Loft.** **November 23, 2004. Tuesday afternoon.**

"I hope you've caught up on your course work."

Peter's call had come through at one o'clock. Finally. Neal had spent the past hour pacing, wondering if some last minute glitch had popped up. When the phone at last condescended to ring, he took a deep breath before answering. "I'm so caught up, I can skate through the rest of the term," he confessed happily.

"Good, because I intend to keep you very busy effective immediately. Hughes would like to see you. Okay if I swing by your place in thirty minutes?"

"Not necessary, Peter. I could come in."

"Technically as long as you're wearing the anklet, you need to be escorted, and we wouldn't want to do anything improper, would we?"

Neal grinned. Peter wouldn't be joking with him if there were any issues. "Never." Too bad Peter couldn't see his choirboy look of innocence.

"That's what I like to hear. By the book." By the satisfied tone in his voice, Peter must have gotten the picture without seeing him.

Neal had been dressed for work since early in the morning. After not having worn a suit for a week, he had no intention of waiting to make that symbolic gesture of a return to normalcy. All that was left was the tie, which he chose with particular care. Knotting it in front of the mirror, Neal smiled with approval at his reflection. Neal Caffrey, White Collar's ace consultant, was back. Neal grabbed his fedora and headed downstairs to wait by the door.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On the ride to the Bureau, Peter detailed how the interview with Tramonte had gone. "Once we convinced him Fowler was betraying him, he fell over himself to return the favor. It was a classic prisoner's dilemma. He admitted Fowler gave him access to the vault and erased the video record afterwards."

"So the ruse about the murdered guards worked?"

"Perfectly. At the thought of a murder charge, he crumpled, all the bluster sucked out of him. Unfortunately we still have no evidence to link him to the original robbery, but at least we can charge him for the heist at the Bureau."

Neal felt like he should be recording Peter so that he could play his words back over and over again. "Any news about Fowler?"

"Not yet. I suspect a friend at OPR was keeping him informed. When Fowler heard about Tramonte's arrest, he must have known it was over. By the way I've removed the bug that was on my phone. It's safe to call on my landline now."

Neal slanted Peter a glance. "Has OPR reached any tentative decision on the chain of events last night?"

Peter didn't look at him, but kept his eyes fixed on the road. "Barrios agrees with us on what probably took place. It's the only scenario that holds water."

Neal nodded, keeping his eyes on the side window. "Has anything been found out about the accomplice?"

"He's been tentatively identified as Paolo Vitale, just as you predicted," Peter said, keeping his voice neutral. "I hear OPR agents have been working through the night to research him. He has an extensive file but there's been no report about him for three years. Until your sketch, many believed he was no longer alive. So far no record has been found of him entering the country."

"He's known to be very slippery," Neal said noncommittally.

"Unsavory character. Violent, history of drug trafficking, implicated in murders. New York will be a safer place if he's fled."

"He's certainly the type to double-cross Tramonte. They deserve each other." Neal glanced down at his monitor. "My anklet's red. Should I expect the Marshals to show up to arrest me?"

"Nah. I told them I was bringing you in."

Neal narrowed his eyes. "Would you like to phrase that differently? You know this doesn't count. My record holds. You caught a thief all right, but it wasn't me."

Peter grinned. "You don't know how good it feels to be teased about that."

"Glad to hear it. I was hoping you weren't too disappointed last night." Neal grew silent as he continued looking through the side window. It seemed unreal that he was riding back to the Bureau with Peter, making their standard jokes. He still felt caught in limbo and that this was only a temporary reprieve. Guess that wouldn't change till he was truly free.

"Anything wrong?" Peter asked.

Neal shook his head. "Can't believe it's over."

"Well, not quite. There's still the matter of that fashion accessory to take care of."

**White Collar Division. November 23, 2004. Tuesday afternoon.**

A week ago, Neal had been escorted out of the FBI building in disgrace. Now, walking back through the doors to the bullpen with Peter at his side, he was disconcerted to find himself as nervous as the first day he'd started work. Neal reminded himself of Mozzie's first rule of being a con: never show your true feelings. Passing a quick smile to Peter, he strolled in nonchalantly and tossed his fedora on the bust of Socrates on his desk.

"Ready?" Peter asked.

"Been ready for a week."

Hughes was waiting for them in his office. He actually got up and walked around his desk to shake his hand. "Welcome back, Caffrey. You've been missed by all of us." He handed Peter a key. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Gimme that foot, Neal," he said and Neal obligingly put his foot on the edge of a chair.

"I feel twenty pounds lighter," Neal said, breaking out into a wide grin after Peter removed the anklet. "Like I'm going to float off." Oops, so much for not showing his true feelings.

Hughes didn't appear to mind. "I appreciate your cooperation during this ordeal. I know how difficult the past few days must have been for you. It may be some consolation to know that you've performed a valuable service for us. Your experience has pointed out several flaws in the use of tracking monitors, which you can believe the tech boys are already working on. And that's not the only problem you highlighted. I spoke with the OPR Assistant Director once I'd received the transcript of Tramonte's confession. I cannot overstate how seriously OPR views this breach in their code of ethics. I've been assured they will conduct a full review to ferret out the details of exactly how Fowler was able to manipulate the system. The FBI simply does not tolerate what happened in this case."

Once they left Hughes, Peter steered Neal to his office. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the ring. "We've had the ring appraised and it was confirmed to be a forgery. Although the stone is man-made, the ring has excellent craftsmanship and I'm told quite valuable." Peter fingered the ring. "Any suggestions on what to do with it?"

The ring was sparkling in his palm. It was probably the last time Neal would see it. Fixing the image in his mind, he said, "After how it was used to try to frame me, I'd like it to be associated with something worthwhile. If no one claims it, it will eventually be auctioned off, right?"

"That's correct."

"Could the proceeds go into the fund for helping families of slain FBI employees? After the deaths in the original heist of the earrings, that seems fitting."

Peter nodded with approval. "An excellent idea. I'll put in the request." Glancing at his watch, he added, "I'm due at a meeting and will have to cut this short, but we'll talk later."

That was disappointing. Neal was hoping to quiz Peter about Fowler, but his questions would have to wait. "In the meantime, you have anything you'd like me to work on, partner?"

"Glad you asked," Peter said without hesitation. "File duty."

"After everything I went through, this is what you have for me?" Neal asked, incredulous.

"That's right," Peter said, totally unfazed by Neal's consternation. "I figure you've gotten a little rusty from your week's absence. You need time to adjust. Nothing like storing away mortgage fraud cases in cold storage to give you that warm glow of being back where you belong. And as I recall, only a few days ago you were telling me how appealing it was to be, and I'm quoting here, 'my file-pusher.' " Peter pointed to a mountain of files beside his computer. "Here's a stack I've been saving for you with your name on it."

"I knew I was going to regret saying that. You sure we can't start over?" Peter appeared adamant. Heaving a noisy sigh, Neal picked up the stack. "You know, I'm already feeling that glow. I might burst into flames with all these files." He looked at Peter hopefully with his best puppy-dog eyes, but Peter was poking around his desk drawers and remained oblivious to the performance.

Neal trudged downstairs. It was odd to see the bullpen still as quiet as when he'd arrived. A few team members nodded at Neal, but everyone seemed to be working on cases. No one wanted to chat. They weren't exactly giving him the brush-off, but they certainly weren't greeting him with open arms. Maybe he should have been more concerned about reentry into the system. Neal hadn't thought that would be a problem, but Fowler may have had more friends at White Collar than he'd realized.

Neal didn't see Travis, but wasn't surprised. He'd no doubt been recruited to work on the tracker issues. Neal looked for Diana and Jones but apparently they were in the field. Clearly they hadn't pulled file duty because the file vault was quiet and friendless. Neal tried to not get too depressed. What Hughes said had been gratifying, but this was such a letdown. He didn't need a parade, but a pat on the back would have been nice. He'd already stored up some witty rejoinders for Diana's heckling.

Fifteen minutes into his filing, his cell phone rang. It was Peter. "My meeting was canceled. Just as well. I'd called a briefing for this afternoon and we'll be able to hold it after all. You can put your file processing on hold and join us in Conference Room D. The main conference room has another meeting going on."

For a moment, Neal wondered if Peter hadn't planned something, perhaps a coffee, to welcome him back. But as long as he'd been working there, nothing like that had happened. This afternoon was bringing back memories of when Neal had first arrived. Some welcome that had been. Rather than being greeted warmly, he'd been interrogated for hours. Hopefully he wasn't going to have to start all over at making friends. Neal walked down the corridor to the conference room. It was a smaller room at the end of a long corridor of meeting rooms and seldom used. Unlike most conference rooms, the walls and door were solid, making it impossible to see what was going on inside. But even with the heavy soundproofing, he heard muffled sounds as he drew near. A smile flitted over his face. Things were looking up.

When Neal opened the door, a strange sight greeted him. Chains of black paper had been strung across the doorway, blocking his entrance. Beyond it, the room had been decorated with a large printout proclaiming "Welcome Back, Footloose!" The theme song from _Footloose_ was blaring out of a boombox. Travis, Jones, Diana, Peter and the other team members were all there, clapping and cheering.

Jones tossed him a plastic sword. "Guess you have some bladework to do. Care to rip that sucker apart and join us?"

"It will be my pleasure," Neal said, flinging the sword high up into the air. Catching it with a flourish, he made quick work of slashing that chain to ribbons.

Diana strode up, wagging a finger. "Thought we'd forgotten about you, didn't you?"

"Nah, I wasn't worried."

"Yeah, right," she said, mussing up his hair. Neal was far too happy to mind.

Peter joined them, a big grin on his face. "Just a little reminder that you're not the only one who can pull a con around here."

Neal smiled appreciatively. "I knew you had the makings of a great con artist."

"I'm not so sure about that," Peter said with a laugh. "I had to stall for time since the party preparations weren't ready. The look on your face when I gave you that stack of files cracked me up so much I had to hide my face by rummaging through the desk drawers to avoid giving away the surprise."

Going over to a side table where a large cooler had been placed, Peter called the group around. "Under the circumstances, I believe champagne is warranted for this celebration."

Neal glanced over at the cups next to the bottles and couldn't resist giving him a little grief. "You really shouldn't drink champagne out of paper."

"I will and you'll love it," Peter said sternly.

Grinning, Neal held out his cup. "Better than Baccarat, partner."

Everyone raised their cups as Peter said, "Last night when we thought we were chasing you on a Monday night version of Tuesday Tails gone horribly wrong, that was a reminder to us all. Neal, we want you running with us and not from us and are going to make damned sure it stays that way."

To chants of "Hear, Hear!" Neal said, "I'll drink to that." Looking around at his teammates, he was now experiencing that warm glow for real. "Good music," he commented as "I'm Free" by the Rolling Stones started to play on the boombox. "Very appropriate."

"Thought you'd like it," Travis said, tossing him a CD. "We made you a CD of songs. Here's your copy."

Neal glanced at the cover and started laughing. "Unchained Melodies?"

"We all picked out selections this morning," Diana said, "Travis barely had time to put it together before you arrived."

"Guess which one I picked," Peter said.

Neal scanned the playlist: "Born Free," "Unchained," "Freedom", "I'm Free," "Born to Run . . ." Looking up, he said, "It can be only one—'Think.' "

"Yeah. Apparently there's not a song called 'Nothing Stupid,' " Peter said, adopting a woebegone expression.

Neal cast his eyes around his teammates. "You know, I've had a different playlist going on in my head for the past few days. Hits like "Working on a Chain Gang," "The Chain" . . . you get the idea. Thanks to all of you for replacing it. It's hard to find the words to adequately express how much better I like this one."

The party had been underway for about ten minutes with much rowdy laughter and joking, when the door opened. All heads turned when Hughes strode into the room. He surveyed the group with his stone face firmly in place and walked toward Neal. What now? Had some issue come up?

He looked at Neal sternly. "That CD you're holding . . . "

"Yes, sir," Neal said, bracing himself.

"You should know that 'I'm Free' by the Who was my pick." At that stone-face himself cracked a surprisingly warm smile. "Welcome back. I'm holding down the fort outside, but wanted to add my congratulations. Carry on, everyone."

Neal stared at his back. He must have looked as flabbergasted as he felt, because everyone burst out laughing at him.

"So, how's it feel to be off the anklet?" Jones asked.

"Like a tiger who just escaped from his cage. I don't know if I'll ever be able to go to a zoo again." Jones nodded his understanding, but Neal didn't think the words did justice to what it was like. "You know, I've gone around for the past several days feeling like a trapped animal. A couple more days, and I would have gnawed my leg off to get rid of it."

Peter had walked up to join them. "It's not that bad," he protested. "Some people wear them for years. Even miss them when they're gone. In fact," he added more loudly, "I considered getting trackers for all the team members," and then quickly ducked at the chorus of boos that erupted.

Jones winked at Neal. "Guess you better do some thinking yourself, Peter, unless that is, you want us all to get out our sabres for a reenactment of _Mutiny on the Bounty_."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After the party Neal offered to stay and help Travis and Diana with the cleanup, but Peter insisted he join him in his office. As Neal swung into the chair opposite his desk, Peter said, "I know you must have a lot of questions about Fowler."

Neal nodded. Hopefully now he'd get a few answers. "Has anything been discovered on why he did it? I don't think he has any reason to hate me. And where'd he get the money to pay off Tramonte? Sounds like Fowler must have paid him first to steal the earrings and then a second time to try to plant them on me. I'm sure Tramonte would have demanded top dollar. And how the hell did Fowler know Tramonte in the first place?"

Peter held up a hand. "I understand. I'm asking the same questions. Tricia's been researching Fowler for us in Washington. I got her initial report this morning, and Hughes plans to request she liaise with OPR to continue her research. In the preliminary findings, there are no connections that we've been able to trace between Fowler and you or any of your relatives. It doesn't appear that he had any reason for personal animosity against you. Fowler's current bank account is healthy but there have been no recent large withdrawals or other transactions that would have covered the value of the earrings. It's doubtful Fowler had hidden funds stashed somewhere which leads us to the conclusion he was being bankrolled by someone else."

"That's not a surprise. Have any names surfaced?"

Peter fixed his eyes on him. "Who's on your list?"

Neal didn't need time to reflect on the question. He'd been asking himself that for the past week. "Of the people I know, Adler seems the most likely. He's already attempted to get me to work for him this spring."

"We've been checking on Adler. No reports of him leaving Argentina, but we're not even sure he's still there. It could be the cybercriminal Azathoth. Perhaps he considers you too much a threat or is seeking revenge. There's one other possibility I've considered."

"Who?"

Peter leaned back in his chair and took his time to answer. He appeared to be choosing his words carefully. "Someone was trying to end your career at the FBI. Adler or possibly Azathoth would have the motivation, but this also could be tied to your father. Remember when we first discussed you going to work at the FBI with U.S. Marshal Simon Preston? He was worried about you using your real name. His concern was that the dirty cops your father's hiding from would find out about you. They may fear you'll decide to investigate the accusations against your father and expose them."

Neal didn't bother to hide his frustration. "If that's the case, then will I have another frame attempt to look forward to every month?"

Peter shook his head. "Not necessarily. It didn't work for one thing. OPR's on high alert to prevent a similar occurrence from taking place. The fact that you weren't thrown out or imprisoned may have scared off whoever's behind this." Peter paused and putting his elbow on the table, gestured with his hand. "Plus, there's the fact that you didn't panic last week and bolt. That shows you have more backbone than they may have given you credit for."

"But this also demonstrates the need for Ellen and my mom to continue in WITSEC."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I've already spoken with the marshals about the attempted frame and warned them about the potential danger. They're going to take extra precautions."

This was not the outcome Neal had been hoping for. Unable to sit quietly, he got up and walked over to the window and looked out at the street scene below. The sky was a leaden gray. It reflected his mood. Instead of getting answers, he was left feeling the case was even murkier than he'd first thought. Turning to Peter, he asked, "What about Tramonte? Does he have any link to Fowler?"

Peter nodded. "Tricia unearthed a possible connection. When Fowler was working with Violent Crimes five years ago, Tramonte was picked up on suspicion of murder. The case was never brought to court. When Tricia looked into what had happened, she discovered that evidence had gone missing and as a result Tramonte was released. Questions had been raised about Fowler at the time, but nothing was proved."

Neal huffed in exasperation.

"Yeah," Peter acknowledged, "it appears likely that Fowler was paid off to destroy the evidence. Since then, Tramonte's never been brought in for questioning although he's been operating in the States for several years. During this time Fowler made several large cash deposits into his bank account. There's no paper trail, but the deposits are suspicious to say the least. In the late 1990s Fowler had invested heavily in speculative stocks. He was burned badly during the dot-com crash and that may have played a role in his willingness to work with Tramonte."

"So what can we do now?"

"OPR will continue the manhunt for Fowler. He's our best lead in finding out who's pulling the strings. Until something more surfaces, we'll get back to business as usual." Neal must have let his dissatisfaction show, because Peter added, "You have to be patient, Neal. These cases can drag on quite a while."

"Just like Azathoth." After their encounter a few weeks ago with the cybercriminal foe in his house of horror, there had been precious little come to light. "I don't suppose anything surfaced about him while I was away? Were they ever able to find anything useful from the ruins?"

Peter looked equally unhappy. "Only fragmentary evidence. We contacted the manufacturer of the saw blades which as you know were found more or less intact. The blades had been stolen from a warehouse. The bits and pieces of electronic gear haven't yielded anything so far nor have the scraps of latex masks that were recovered."

"How about the bait shack and house? Were the owners traced?"

"In the case of the bait shack, the owner claimed to be innocent of any knowledge of what happened. He'd boarded the place up at the end of the season, and there's nothing to suggest that he was aware Azathoth had appropriated it. As for the house, the owner lives in Montreal. Inherited the house several years ago, but never visited the place and was holding on to it as an investment. He had a caretaker stop by periodically, but the last visit had been on the first of October, when nothing out of the ordinary was detected. Azathoth executed his plan brilliantly. The best leads we have may be those paintings you made of the rooms and your attacker."

Neal had painted a series of acrylic paintings in the aftermath of Azathoth's Halloween house of horror. They were part therapy, part evidence documentation. Painting them had forced him to separate himself from the emotions of the ordeal and be a neutral observer. Peter had restricted Neal to desk duty while he recovered and Neal had come up with the idea in lieu of the dreaded paperwork he would have been stuck with otherwise.

He'd prepared seven paintings: the initial room where they'd been held, the starfish monster which had been projected on the wall, the corridor of saws, the staircase, the dining room, his attacker, and the final puzzle chamber. They were all there in precise detail. After discussing it with Peter, he'd taken them to the loft and invited El and Mozzie over to see them. He and Peter had explained to the others what happened that night and shown them the paintings. It was a somber evening but also cathartic for all of them. El and Mozzie had suffered too and it was important they understood.

"Those paintings are a remarkable testimonial," Peter said. "The subject matter is appalling, but the paintings themselves are beautiful." Peter hesitated as he fumbled with the words. "I confess contemporary art confuses the hell out of me. What would you call the style you used?"

Neal grinned. "Sherkov would be proud of you, Peter. You remember that seminar on Utrecht Caravaggism you sat in for? I painted those pictures in the style of Gerritt van Honthorst. I was particularly happy how well the chiaroscuro worked out on them."

"I might have known," Peter said, rolling his eyes. "Did I ever tell you that during that class I passed the time imagining how Babe Ruth would have been painted by one of those artists? I think I've found my niche." Resting his eyes on Neal, he continued, "If anything surfaces about Azathoth, I _promise_ you I'll let you know, but Thanksgiving's almost here. Let's give it a rest for a few days, okay?"

"Enjoy the moment?"

"Yeah. For today, everything's good. Let's pause and savor that. You still plan to join us in Albany on Friday?"

"Already got the bus schedule. I wouldn't miss out on the chance to meet your parents, plus I haven't seen Noelle and Joe since Halloween. So as long as the bus can make it, I'll be there. Did you see the reports for blizzard conditions in upstate New York? You may want to reconsider and join me for Thanksgiving."

Peter didn't appear concerned. "A few snowflakes won't bother us. We'll drive up tomorrow afternoon."

**Neal's Loft. November 24, 2004. Wednesday morning.**

_Bzzzzzz_

"Go away—'m sleeping." Neal put a pillow over his head.

Bzzzzzz

"Sleeping here." Wouldn't that thing shut up? Neal had been out till late—make that very late—last night. At the conclusion of the evening workshops, Richard, Aidan, and he had celebrated their success at the Roaring Lion. The Three Musketeers had really tied one on.

Bzzzzzz

Neal removed the pillow from over his head and answered his cell. "Er-hmphg?"

"And good morning to you too, sunshine."

"Peter, why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

"It's already six o'clock. Aren't you up yet?"

Neal rolled over on his side and stared blearily at the clock. "Late night—don't ask."

"Out partying?"

"You might say so."

"Then you'll like what I have to say. You can go back to bed."

"Haven't left it. Why?"

"Notice the snow?"

"What snow? It's dark, Peter. It's the middle of the night."

"Word to the wise. Don't drink coffee on your terrace. It's snowing. The blizzard dipped further south than they thought. There's a winter snow warning for the entire region, and the office will be closed today."

Neal struggled to sit up, rubbing his eyes. _Coffee then aspirin, or maybe aspirin then coffee?_ "Are you going to drive to your parents?"

"No, we can't. Roads are closed in upstate New York. We'll have to wait a couple of days."

At that, Neal sat bolt upright, now wide awake. "That means you can join us at Columbia for Thanksgiving."

"No, we're not going to intrude on that." Peter took a sip of something. Was that coffee? Where was his coffee?

"What intrusion? We'll put you to work. You can be turkey carver. You have to come."

"If you're sure . . ." Neal could hear the smile in his voice. "Then we can all drive up together to my folks on Friday. The roads should be cleared by then. Agreed?

"Looking forward to it. I can't wait to pester your parents for stories about you."

"El will want to bring stuff for Thanksgiving. She'll give you a call after you finished your beauty sleep."

"I'm heading for coffee and aspirin now."

"Got any pickles?"

What was Peter babbling about now? "What d'ya mean?"

"You need pickle juice. Famous Burke hangover remedy. Add one raw egg yolk—"

"Goodbye, Peter." Neal turned off the phone with a chuckle and sank back under the covers.

 

* * *

_Notes: Neal was frustrated about the lack of answers about Fowler and you may be also, but FBI investigations can take a long time. More will be revealed about Fowler in my next story, An Evening with Genji, which I'll begin posting at the conclusion of The Queen's Jewels. In the meantime, while Tricia continues researching Fowler in Washington, Peter advises Neal to relax and take time out for Thanksgiving. After everything that's gone on, it seems only fitting that Neal should have a double dose of Thanksgiving, both at Columbia and in Albany with Peter's parents. The celebration will continue over the next two chapters with still a few surprises in store. I hope you'll join us!_

_There are several nods to previous stories in this chapter. Neal's experiences when he arrived at White Collar are described in Choirboy Caffrey by Penna Nomen. The champagne reference is from the canon episode "Free Fall" and the pickle juice remedy comes from a season 4 episode, "Family Business."  For new readers to the series, the history of cybercriminal Azathoth is found in The Woman in Blue, and Adler's attempt to recruit Neal is in Caffrey Flashback by Penna Nomen. Penna contributed many excellent suggestions to the chapter, including Tuesday Tails and Neal teasing Peter about To Catch a Thief. In addition to her many other talents, she also rocks as a DJ and party planner. Several of the songs are her selections. You can find all the songs on Neal's CD on The Queen's Jewels board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site._


	14. Thanksgiving

**Lerner Hall, Columbia University. November 25, 2004. Thanksgiving Day.**

"I've never had such an easy time finding a parking place," Peter said as they entered the student center in Lerner Hall. "I should only come to Columbia on holidays." El held the doors for him since he was carrying a large baking dish of pumpkin and sage ravioli. Neal had suggested they bring a vegetarian dish and El's ravioli was so good, it was almost enough to make a vegetarian out of a carnivore like Peter.

Their footsteps echoed disconcertingly loud in the empty student center, but once they started down the main stairs to the lower level, they could hear sounds in the distance. "The party room must be just ahead," said El. "Do you know how many people are expected to show up?"

"I don't think Neal knows for sure. Perhaps twenty-four."

They entered a large event room. A wet bar was in one corner and a giant TV was mounted on the far wall. Modular sectionals had been pushed around the TV with several people already camped out, watching football. Three long tables and folding chairs had been arranged in the center of the room. Peter gave a wave to Travis and Richard who were setting up band equipment near the bar. Aidan was sitting on the floor, wiring up the speakers. Diana and Christie had also arrived and were putting out snacks on one of the tables. Peter murmured to El, "You remember Christie? She was the ER doctor who tended Jones and me after N-Con in the fall."

"How can I forget?" El replied. "That's the last time I'm ever letting you go undercover at a gaming convention."

They stopped to exchange greetings before heading for the kitchen which was located adjacent to the main room. There they found Neal in the midst of basting an immense turkey. Fiona was standing next to him, trimming green beans. She'd tied her long hair up into a loose bun. They were wearing matching Thanksgiving aprons in bright orange with stylized turkeys on them.

"Love the aprons!" El said, getting out her camera. "Fiona, turn around so I can take a picture of the two of you."

"Do I have flour on my face?" Fiona asked Neal, wiping her hands.

"No flour, just a few tendrils falling down," he said, brushing them behind her ears. "The aprons are a gift from Keiko," Neal explained, putting an arm around Fiona for the photo. "Any trouble getting here?"

"No, the roads were in surprisingly good shape despite the snow," Peter said as he placed the casserole on the counter. "They'd even plowed our neighborhood."

El put away her camera and pulled out her own apron from the bag of supplies she'd brought. "I'm reporting for duty. How can I help?"

"I could use your expertise with these beans," Fiona said. "I've never made green bean casserole before. I think it's unheard of in the U.K. In fact, this is the first casserole I've ever made. I think I should have picked an easier recipe."

"It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without green bean casserole," El said. "I'm sure yours will be wonderful. Which recipe did you choose?"

"Richard suggested Emeril Lagasse's recipe. I'm afraid he's overly confident of my cooking abilities."

Neal got out a spoon and tasted Fiona's sauce. "It will be great. Maybe just a little more oregano?" He turned to Peter. "Help yourself to something from the bar. We're drinking Beaujolais nouveau, but there's also a plentiful supply of beer. Would you like some wine, El?"

Peter offered to bring her a glass, happy to play bartender and leave the cooking to the others. He returned to the party room where he found Richard standing behind the bar, refilling his glass. The bar was well-stocked with wine, beer, cider, and assorted soft drinks. Several bottles of wine were on the counter, probably contributed by the attendees. Behind the bar were two cases of Beaujolais nouveau. A gift card had been taped to one of the boxes and Peter went over to read it.

"Those are a present from Athos," Richard said. "He wasn't able to make it to the party but sent the wine instead."

"Athos?"

"That's our nickname for him. He's a friend of Neal's. Nice guy … a little weird."

"I bet I know who you're talking about," Peter said as he poured a glass for El and helped himself to a beer. "Short, bald guy with glasses?"

"Maybe," Richard reflected. "I assume that's a wig Athos wears. Nobody's real hair could look the way his does."

So Mozzie had been at Columbia and apparently had met Aidan and Richard. Not surprising he'd used an alias. Since Aidan had given Neal the nickname of d'Artagnan, for Mozzie to be called Athos was fitting. It was tempting to pry more information out of Richard, who was already eyeing him a little nervously. Based on Peter's experience last Sunday, Richard would be an easy mark, but Peter decided it'd be more fun to wait and tease Neal about it later.

On his way back to the kitchen, Peter stopped to talk with Travis who was adjusting the heights of his drums. "I didn't know you played with the group."

"Remember I told you I visited Neal at his studio last weekend? Turns out, they needed a drummer. I'd tried my hand at them in college, but it's been years. Back then I used a traditional drum set. I'm faking it now with digital drums."

"I'm glad you could help out"—Peter gave a wave with one hand to the equipment—"with everything. Faking it is a useful talent to have."

Travis shrugged. "Fake drums can be surprisingly effective."

Running his hand around the rim of one of the drums, Peter remarked casually, "I expect you'll be called upon to improve our tracking anklets. It was eye-opening, wasn't it, how that cell phone interfered with Neal's signal."

"Cell phones are just starting to come out with GPS capability," Travis said blandly. "We've been lucky it hasn't occurred before. Our equipment needs to be adapted to take into account the new technology."

"I'm sure the Bureau will be very appreciative of your expertise, just as I am. In a way, you could say this past week gave us an excellent opportunity to evaluate our monitoring equipment and detect deficiencies. What happened on Monday was a wake-up call. It's almost as if Neal were working undercover to help us perform the test."

Travis pursed his lips as he adjusted the cymbals. "Interesting. I can see where one could easily view it that way."

El had approached them, no doubt looking for her errant glass of wine, and said, "I hope you two aren't talking shop. It's Thanksgiving. Day off, remember?"

"No worries, hon," Peter said, handing her the glass. "We were simply discussing digital drums."

Jones had walked in with his date. El murmured in Peter's ear, "Who's the woman with Jones? She looks very sophisticated."

"Neal told me Jones was bringing his new girlfriend, Helen Broussard. She works in the D.A.'s office. Let's go say hello."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

All three tables were now laden with food. Looking at the spread, Peter wondered if anyone was still going to be hungry for turkey. He'd been watching football, but it was now halftime. A conversation area had been set up in the opposite corner of the room and several people had staked it out. Peter spotted Neal and Fiona sitting together with El on a sectional, drinking wine and chatting. "Taking a break from cooking chores I gather?" Peter asked, sitting down next to them.

"I have an hour off before duty calls." Neal said, crossing his arms behind his head and stretching his legs out.

Diana gave him a sharp look. "Someone's gonna trip on your feet, Caffrey."

Neal waved his left foot in front of her. "Got new socks yesterday. Don't you like them?"

"A lot better than what you wore last week," Diana agreed.

"Is there a private joke going on?" Fiona asked.

"Don't mind them," El said. "It's just a sock thing. Peter, you should show them yours."

"Really not necessary, El."

"Oh, but I insist," Neal demanded eagerly.

Peter reluctantly displayed his socks, a tasteful brown but perhaps overly embellished with large turkeys. "A gift from El," he said sheepishly, responding to the laughter.

"Very appropriate for the turkey carver," Neal nodded in solemn approval.

"And here's a little something for the turkey chef." El winked at Peter as she pulled out a gift box.

A look of surprise crossed Neal's face. "Should I go ahead and open it?"

"Definitely," said Peter.

Neal unwrapped the box and pulled out the contents gleefully. "My own turkey socks! Thank you, guys."

"Under the circumstances, socks seemed appropriate," Peter said, "although my first thought was a tie emblazoned with turkeys."

"Thank you for resisting that." Ignoring Fiona's raised eyebrows, Neal promptly toed off his shoes and put on the new socks. "I should roll up my jeans so everyone can see these."

"You're all very strange," said Fiona, shaking her head. "In the U.K. we have Christmas stockings, but I've never heard of Thanksgiving socks. Is this another one of those quaint Thanksgiving traditions nobody's told me about?"

 "Something like that," Diana said.

"Isn't it time for some music?" El asked. "I've been hearing so much about this group, but never had a chance to hear them."

Neal looked over at Fiona. "The fans are growing restless. You ready?"

"Let's do it," she agreed with a ready smile.

That was easier said than done as it took several minutes of dragging people away from their conversations, sound checks, and random chaos before the concert could begin. Perhaps the Beaujolais was having an undue influence? Eventually the performers had all been rounded up and Fiona approached the microphone. "Be kind, everyone." With a quick glance to Michael, she added, "For some of us, it's our first performance in front of a live audience. We'd like to start with a song written by Loreena McKinnett, 'All Souls Night.' The song blends Celtic, European, and Asian traditions just as we try to in our music."

What followed was not at all what Peter expected, not that he knew what he expected. Neal and Fiona sang while Richard played guitar, Aidan an electronic keyboard, Keiko violin, Travis drums, and Michael tambourine. All the players appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.

"They're really excellent," El whispered to Peter. "I've heard this as a solo piece but I love the way Neal and Fiona interweave their duet."

The performers were greeted with thunderous applause and chants for more when they ended. They followed up with "La Serenissima" with Keiko taking the lead on violin and Neal and Richard accompanying her on guitars.

Peter sank back on the cushions of the sectional and putting his arm around El, squeezed her shoulder. 

She looked over at him and smiled. "Feeling like a college kid again?"

"I do. This is taking me back. I wish we'd known each other in college."

"We're making up for it now," she said, relaxing against him. "I'm so glad it worked out that we could take part in this. Seeing Neal so happy with his friends is helping to erase the pain of what he went through."

The concert was cut short when the cooks needed to report back to the kitchen, leaving the others to return to football.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The Thanksgiving feast, when all the dishes were laid out, was a banquet such as Peter hadn't seen in a long time. Richard had prepared a bourbon sweet potato casserole, which was second in decadence only to Jones's pecan pie. Peter was lucky to get a spoonful of Neal's wild mushroom stuffing which was so popular he should have made a double order. Peter's hopes of being able to take leftovers back of El's ravioli were quickly dashed. Turkey, ham, and good fellowship were all to be had in abundance. At the end of the meal everyone pitched in to clean up, making quick work of it.

"Was that your pumpkin pie?" Peter asked Fiona as they carried plates into the kitchen. "It was delicious."

Fiona laughed. "You can thank your wife for that. I'd prepared the fresh pumpkin yesterday and poured it into the shell to cool, thinking I was done. I didn't realize that the part of the recipe giving the baking instructions hadn't printed. It was Elizabeth to the rescue or you would have had raw pumpkin pie, a tasty treat." She set her plates down in the kitchen and went over to El who was rinsing glasses and gave her a quick hug. "I'm not cooking any more feasts unless Elizabeth's with me."

"I'll second that," Neal said, walking in. "It wouldn't have been Thanksgiving without both of you here." Neal's words were spoken lightly, but the smile he slanted in Peter's direction conveyed a deeper message, one which Peter echoed in kind.

Dishes put away, everyone returned to the party room to polish off the Beaujolais and assorted other libations. "Music, music . . ." the revelers were chanting. Chairs were pulled up around the impromptu stage. News of the concert must have leaked out because others started pouring in to listen. By the time the music started, the room was packed.

Neal started the concert going. "To open things up, we'd like to start with a drinking song from Blackmore's Night. The words are simple and we hope you'll join in. The refrain is 'All For One, and One For All!' "

The music started like a rock song, with electric guitars, drums, and Michael enthusiastically shaking the tambourine. By the end of the first stanza, everyone was singing along, Peter included. As he roared out, "All for one," he noticed Neal, Richard, and Aidan exchange grins. He'd been puzzling about the meaning of AFO ever since he saw it on Neal's whiteboard. D'Artagnon, Athos—it all made sense now. Peter nodded with satisfaction. _Gotcha, Caffrey._

The music continued. Scandinavian guitar sounds, Celtic folk music, rock, it was quite a mixture as performers switched back and forth. Keiko and Richard played a haunting duet called "The Gloaming" which had El putting her head on his shoulder and purring.

One song particularly struck Peter. It was a song by Blackmore's Night called "Twenty-five Years." Neal sang the stanzas solo with Fiona joining on the refrains. A pulsating beat was provided by Travis on drums. When Peter heard the title, he'd been struck by the aptness. Neal was twenty-five. It was if the song had been written for him. And then when he heard the lyrics, the poignant expression of loss and confusion made it seem so personal. Had Neal changed the words?

Breaking into his thoughts, Fiona had appeared in front of Peter and was trying to pull him onto the makeshift stage. "Wait a minute," Peter protested. "What's going on?"

Neal addressed the crowd. "We've been reliably informed, that there's another person here with experience of garage bands"—Peter, startled, glowered at El, who had a suspiciously sly smile on her face— "Peter, we expect you to join us on this which, according to my source, was one of your favorite pieces."

Neal and Richard got out electric guitars and while they adjusted them Travis began pounding a beat on the drums. "Oh no," Peter groaned.

"Oh yes." Neal insisted. He and Richard put on dark aviator sunglasses and handed Peter a pair. Travis slapped on a big, floppy hat. Looking around at the band members, Neal said, "Hit it, guys. One . . . two . . . three . . ." With that, Neal and Richard started belting out "Born to be Wild." When it came to the refrain, Neal put an arm around Peter and they sang it together as El took photos. By the second stanza, Peter was singing right along with them.

**On the Road. November 26, 2004. Friday afternoon.**

"Did you bring the photos? Your parents will want to see them. They'll probably need blown up versions for the photo wall. You do have a photo wall don't you?" Neal glanced away from the road to assess Peter's reaction. El was dozing was Satchmo in the back seat. They were about an hour out of Albany. Peter was letting him drive, fulfilling a long-held promise to teach him how to drive in the snow, not that there was much to drive in. The highway had already been plowed and was a hardly a challenge. But the fields were blanketed in snow and sparkled under the bright sun.

"Eyes on the road, Caffrey," Peter said sharply. "Funny thing about the photos. The ones with me on the stage were out-of-focus. We weren't able to save any of them."

"Yeah, right. When El wakes up, I'll check with her about that."

"Actually she got a great shot of the two of us on stage. Good thing. That's a once in a lifetime performance."

"You should rethink that. We're looking for additional band members," Neal said, flashing a grin. "Tempted?"

"Hey, focus on the road and watch out for black ice. I'm letting you drive the family limo since you said you wanted to learn how to drive in the snow, but there better not be any dents at the end of the lesson."

"Relax, Peter. Your chariot's in safe hands. When did Noelle and Joe arrive?"

"They'd flown in on Monday to miss the holiday crush and succeeded in missing the snowstorm in the process."

Hesitating, Neal asked, "You didn't tell Noelle?"

"No," Peter assured him. "No one knows anything about what went on."

"Good, thanks." Neal drove in silence for a few minutes.

"Hard to believe what all went down," Peter said, as if Neal had spoken his thoughts aloud.

"Yeah, this time last week, if you'd told me we'd be driving up to see your parents rather than . . ." Neal's voice trailed off as he shook his head. "Close call."

"I've been meaning to ask you about a song you performed yesterday. I think the name was '25 Years.' "

"That was based on a Balkan folk tune. You like it?"

"The lyrics sounded like they'd been written for you."

"I certainly identified with them. Candice Night, the singer for Blackmore's Night, wrote them. She said she'd written it to express how nightmares can have deep psychological holds on us. That's a subject I know something about. Guess I was destined to sing it. Last week, it felt like I was living a nightmare. Or, maybe this is a dream? Anyway, I'll take the dream." Damn. Those words didn't come out right. Neal wished he'd kept his mouth shut. He slanted a glance over at Peter who was looking at him concerned. A reminder to be more careful. He didn't want Peter thinking he was having nightmares again.

El stirred in the back seat. "We almost there?" she asked.

"Our exit's coming up. In fact, Neal why don't you pull over at the next rest stop and we'll switch. I'll drive the rest of the way in."

Thirty minutes later, they were driving through the suburbs west of Albany. Peter's parents lived on the outskirts of town on the road to Schenectady. It was rural countryside with several horse stables and farms scattered in among the subdivisions. "How long have your folks lived here?" Neal asked.

"We moved here when I was four."

Would he ever live in one place that long? More to the point would he ever own a house? He and Kate had discussed it once, but it seemed like they were spinning a fairy tale far removed from their own reality.

Pulling up at the Burke home, it was just as Neal had pictured it: brick, two-stories, with a white picket fence, neatly trimmed shrubbery, and tall trees begging to be climbed. And coming out of the house to greet them were Peter's parents, Betty and Luke. Neal had seen photos of them, but they didn't do them justice. Luke was shorter than Peter but had his athletic build and that same sly, knowing smile as if he were enjoying a private joke. Betty had short, straight hair with tousled bangs, which gave her a tomboy appearance. She appeared to be perpetually laughing. Peter's parents had recently retired. Betty had been a fifth grade teacher. Luke had started off as a bricklayer and then moved into construction management. Neal hung back, smiling at the reunion, as the Burkes welcomed El and Peter, but before he knew it, he was wrapped up in hugs too.

"Finally, we get to meet you," Betty exclaimed. "I knew a little snow wouldn't keep you away. Come in out of the cold."

"Neal, you arrived at the perfect time," Luke said. "We already finished shoveling the walk. All you need do is relax and enjoy yourself. From what I hear your schedule has been busy one."

Betty walked arm in arm with Neal. "Has my son been overworking you?" she asked.

"Constantly," Neal said, delighting in Peter's protests.

They were greeted at the door by Noelle and Joe. Noelle was dressed casually in an ivory cowl-neck sweater and navy corduroy jeans. She'd cut her blond hair a little shorter since last Neal saw her. Joe was also wearing jeans with a heavy pullover. Outside it was in the twenties, but the house was warm and inviting with a blazing fire in the fireplace. Satchmo had bounded into the house with them. Peter's parents had a black Labrador, named Barclay, who apparently was best friends with Satchmo as the two immediately started playing together.

During the next few minutes of hugs and greetings, Neal caught the shadow of a movement in the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. Was someone else there? One of Joe's daughters perhaps? Neal had been told they were spending Thanksgiving with their mom since they were going to the wedding over Christmas. Neal was on the verge of asking when the person emerged.

"Surprise!" Henry said, his face dissolving into a wide grin. "Couldn't miss out on the reunion, could I?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to be here?" Neal exclaimed.

"It was a last minute decision. Wasn't sure I'd be able to catch a flight. But, after all, this dude is claiming he wants to marry my mom. I don't plan to wait for the wedding to pass judgment on him."

"You missed out on the grilling I had to endure," Joe said. "Psychological mind torture games, Rorschach tests, sleep deprivation, you name it. The CIA missed out on a helluva interrogator when they didn't recruit him. No wonder Win-Win is so desperate to have him back working for them."

"And I'm happy to report Joe passed all those tests with flying colors," Noelle said, putting an arm around Joe. She looked even more radiant than when Neal had seen her over Halloween. After all the months of worrying about Henry and then having to accept his prolonged absence, she must be overjoyed.

"When did you arrive?" Neal asked Henry.

"Early Tuesday morning. You'd be here so soon, I couldn't resist making it a surprise."

Betty took Neal's coat. "It would have been such a shame if you hadn't been able to come."

Her comment caught Neal off guard and for a second he was at a loss on how to respond, but Peter fielded it quickly. "We couldn't let a piddling blizzard stand in our way. I made a promise to Neal last winter I'd teach him how to drive in the snow. This provided the perfect opportunity."

"What? He trusted you with his car? That's a rare compliment," Luke said. "Neal, you must be as exceptional as Peter keeps telling me. Follow me upstairs. I'll give you the mini-tour and show you where you'll sleep."

Peter and Neal collected their bags and followed Luke upstairs, accompanied by Henry who had been eyeing Neal thoughtfully ever since Betty's comment.

The stairwell wall was filled with family photos. Prominent among them were photos of Peter as a kid playing baseball. Neal made a mental note to revisit the wall when he had time to linger. Luke showed him the layout of the upstairs. There were four bedrooms upstairs. Neal and Henry's room had a single bed and a sleeping bag.

"I already have dibs on the sleeping bag," Henry announced as Neal dropped off his bag in the room.

"Only if you win the coin toss," Neal reminded him, "and that's no longer a sure thing." This had been a standard tease ever since the days Henry took it upon himself to keep Neal safe. Henry, determined to act as protector to Neal, had always insisted that Neal take the best bed and he'd make do with a sleeping bag if necessary. After the events of the past summer, Neal was hoping that role had been put to rest or at least Henry would let them trade off. But apparently Henry hadn't gotten the message.

Neal and Peter didn't take the time to unpack as Betty was already was calling everyone into the family room for hot cider and conversation.

"Neal, have you and Peter been behaving yourselves?" Joe asked. "Not playing any more practical jokes I hope. Henry, did Neal ever tell you about the stunt they pulled over Halloween? They're lucky to still be alive. I was protecting my fair lady from bears. It could have easily gotten ugly."

"If Joe had wanted to take a pot shot at my old teddy bear," Peter scoffed, "he never would have lived it down."

"Henry, you need to hear this tale," Betty said. "Everybody sit down and get comfortable. Luke, you can help me with the drinks."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The large family room at the Burkes' was ideal for conversation, which was currently being conducted in abundance as everyone caught up with each other's lives. The room was filled with comfortable, overstuffed furniture. Neal and Henry had grabbed the couch close to the fireplace. French doors looked out on a brick patio and large yard which backed out on the woods beyond.

Neal adopted the strategy of planting topics and then sitting back to enjoy the results. He had a long list of questions for Henry but many of them were too personal to bring out in a large group setting. He suspected Henry was feeling the same way since he'd joined Neal in steering the conversation around the older generation. They'd have plenty of time to talk later.

Betty was the vivacious member of the couple, her ready smile wrapping a person up in a warm hug. Luke let Betty do most of the talking, only interjecting the occasional comment. Joe was the cut-up of the family. He seemed the most like Betty and tended to dominate the conversation.

The day-after-Thanksgiving feast had enough food to satisfy the most voracious appetite. At the beginning of the meal, Luke stood up. "Before we start, I'd like to say how pleased Betty and I are to have you here. It makes us both so proud to welcome Noelle, Neal, and Henry into our family. Betty and I feel more than ever blessed."

Over dinner, Neal switched tactics and steered much of the conversation around Henry's time in India, reasoning that would be a safe topic and keep the spotlight off his work at the FBI. Henry had spent the past several months in southern India with his grandfather and readily followed Neal's lead.

Spearing another slice of turkey from the platter, Henry explained how he'd gotten the idea. "In early September we spent a couple of weeks sailing along the Atlantic Coast, but then I grew restless. Wanted to try something new."

"Why did you pick India?" El asked.

"Pops had read about a new data mining technique they were using in Bengaluru and was keen to research it. I'd read a paper on Indian psychology techniques and decided to delve deeper. So we took off for India. The Indian Psychology Institute is at Puducherry. I studied there and volunteered at a local hospital with abused kids."

"The kids must have loved you," Betty commented, passing the gravy around. "You have such an approachable manner, I'm sure they could relate to you."

"A diplomatic way of saying I'm still a kid myself," Henry said with a laugh. "You're right. And I indulged my kid side too. Puducherry has great beaches, even a French Quarter."

"How were the bars?" Joe asked. "Anything like the French Quarter in New Orleans?"

Teasing Noelle with a wink, Henry said, "Let's table that discussion for later."

Luke turned to face Neal. "How's it going at the FBI? You've had your own journey to make. Happy there or are you wanting to head off to some exotic land too?"

That was a question Neal had been dreading and had already decided to deflect. Not a good idea to explore his feelings about the FBI and OPR with Peter's parents over dinner. What could he say? If he were truthful, he'd have to admit he viewed the organization with more cynicism now. Not as much as Mozzie, perhaps, although there'd been moments. "Working at White Collar has been eye-opening. And not just Peter, working with the team. That's something I don't have much experience with. It may be better for you to ask Peter." Slanting a quick glance at Henry, Neal sat back, knowing that he wouldn't be able to evade his questions later on.

Luke looked at Peter quizzically. "It has to present some challenges to supervise someone who's like a member of the family."

It became quickly apparent that Peter was also in no mood for probing questions over dinner. "I feel a responsibility to all the team members but Neal's special. The obeying orders thing we're still working on."

"Interesting to hear you say that," Luke said, a slight smile quirking his lips. "As I recall you had your own issues with that."

"I sense a story here," Henry interjected. "Details please. It will no doubt be highly instructive for Neal and me."

Betty sighed, shaking her head. "There are so many, it'll be hard to pick. What do you think, Luke, the 'don't dig up my flowers when you're looking for dinosaurs' directive or should it be the 'hands off my shop tools' commandment?"

Pouring himself another beer, Joe said, "I've got you all beat. It's the 'don't conduct surveillance on your older brother when he brings home a date' order. Peter really knew how to kill a romantic moment."

"Hey, I was simply being clairvoyant, trying to save you for Noelle," Peter protested.

As the table erupted in clamors for details, Neal relaxed and sat back to enjoy the show while finishing his meal. The day before he'd put on the performance. Time for Peter to be in the spotlight and he wasn't about to miss a minute of it.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

 Dinner done, dishes washed and put away, Betty suggested they move into the family room for dessert. "El, you've been very mysterious. You mentioned you had something special planned."

El had carried in a large covered pie container. "That's right. Neal and I'd like to give you a taste of what's in store for us in Hawaii." Removing the cover, she said, "This is a guava chiffon pie from a Hawaiian friend of Neal's. He's been providing me with contacts for the big event coming up."

"While everyone feasts on pie," Peter added, "I'm in charge of the entertainment. At this first gathering of the newly expanded Burke clan. I believe some home movies are in order."

Henry immediately seconded the offer. "Great idea! Kid flicks please."

"We've built up quite a collection from over the years," Betty said. "Last week we went through them and pulled out some of the best."

Peter inserted a DVD into the player and turned on the TV. "I plan to start with sports. Joe played football in high school and college. Baseball was my game, but there are some other sports represented too."

Henry nudged Neal. "What other sports have you heard about?"

Neal shrugged. "None. Skiing or hockey, maybe?"

"Everyone, pull up a seat and you'll soon find out," Peter said. "This first DVD even El and my parents haven't seen." He inserted the disc into the player and began playing it. Background chatter was heard as the photographer explained what he was shooting: first scenes from the Columbia quad and then the Blue Gym.

"That's Travis talking!" Neal blurted.

Noelle turned to Neal. "Is there something you haven't told me about your activities at Columbia?"

Neal didn't answer, his eyes riveted to the TV. The next footage was of him taking to the fencing strip for his épée bout. "How did you obtain this?"

Peter paused the DVD. "A word of explanation. This past Saturday I and several other members of my team had the honor of watching a fencing match between Harvard and Neal's team at Columbia. Unbeknownst to Neal, Travis recorded all his bouts. El wasn't able to make it, so you'll have to indulge a very proud dad, and Neal, I expect you to contribute a detailed commentary."

Henry clapped Neal on the back. "You're blushing," he muttered to him with a grin. More loudly he said, "Do you realize this is something you've witnessed that I never have? Not once have I seen Neal fence. Thank you for this, Peter."

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! Next week I'll post the final chapter when Neal and Henry at long last have a chance to talk. If you'd like to hear the music mentioned in this chapter, the songs are pinned to The Queen's Jewels board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site as well as Peter and Neal's turkey socks and visuals for Albany._

_Fiona's near disaster with pumpkin pie was contributed by Penna Nomen who had a friend who suffered the same mishap. Alas for the friend, there was no El around to save her pie. Penna also made many great suggestions for the scenes in Albany. Peter's promise to Neal to teach him how to drive in snow is found in her story, By the Book. Henry's experiences during the summer of 2004 that are touched upon in this chapter are found in Caffrey Disclosure._


	15. Albany

**Betty and Luke Burke's home, Albany. November 26, 2004. Friday evening.**

Ever since Neal had arrived in Albany, he'd been engaged in group activities. His cousin Henry had been sending him looks for hours about the need to talk, but privacy was required for what would be discussed. Henry knew him too well not to have noticed Neal's avoidance of work-related topics. He would insist on details, and Neal didn't want him to blow up in front of Peter and his parents.

After dinner their opportunity finally came. The women had appropriated the dining room and converted it into a bridal command center as they pored over wedding plans. Luke, Peter, and Joe took possession of the family room to watch football. Henry had brought back several CDs of Indian music. Listening to music made a good excuse and would also provide them a measure of privacy.

When Betty heard what they had in mind, she suggested they listen in the basement where the sounds of the football game wouldn't interfere. She and Peter accompanied them downstairs. The Burke basement was a combination rec room and laundry with a ping pong table and miscellaneous sports gear in one section and a well-worn sofa and chairs forming a conversation group at the far end.

Quickly scanning the large space, Neal immediately headed for a painting which was hanging over a bookcase containing old paperbacks on a side wall. Peter hastily blocked his way. "You don't want to look at that. The stereo's over by the sofa."

"Oh yes, I do," Neal said, stepping around him. Neal got close to examine the painting and then stepped back to admire the overall effect as Peter heaved a long-suffering sigh. He obviously knew Neal wouldn't be able to resist commenting on it, and Neal had no intention of disappointing him. "An extraordinary work but I'm confused. I thought Van Gogh's _Starry Night over the Rhone_ was in the collection of the Musée d'Orsay. Little did I dream it was here in Albany. Peter, you should have told me."

"It is lovely, isn't it," Betty said with a laugh. "Peter found this paint-by-numbers painting in a catalog when he was ten and spent weeks on it. I thought he did an excellent job."

Henry walked over to study it and gave a judicious nod. "I'm no art expert, but this shows a rare gift to stay within the lines."

Shaking his head at both of them, Peter said, "All right you two, we're out of here. You can mock my artistic efforts after we've left." He and Betty retreated upstairs.

Henry inserted a CD into the small stereo system and the strains of sitar music wafted through the basement. Toeing off his shoes, he sat cross-legged on the sofa.

Neal sat opposite the sofa in an oversized chair, also pulling up his legs to sit cross-legged. "Seems like we should be on the floor, but it's a little cold for that. The music's making me feel warmer already. I can almost smell the spices in the air. This isn't you on the CD, is it?"

"Hardly! That's Anoushka Shankar, Ravi Shankar's daughter. I thought you should hear the good stuff first." Henry began slapping the sofa cushions as if they were drums and moving in rhythm to the music.

With a laugh Neal joined in. He'd been assembling his list of questions for Henry and finally had his opportunity, but he still hadn't decided how much he should reveal about his own experiences.

Henry started it off. Not stopping his soft sofa-drum cadence, he asked, "So, you and Sara …"

Neal stared at him. After three months, this was what he wanted to talk about? "Yeah, what about me and Sara?"

"You two getting along okay?"

Neal rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Dude, there is no me and Sara. If you'd kept in touch you'd know that."

Henry kept up his drum beat. "What happened?"

"For one thing, she moved to London. For another, she's involved with someone else."

"That sucks, but with Columbia, you should be …"

"Let's leave my love life out of it, okay?"

Henry shrugged. "All right, don't get twisted. Just trying to catch up."

Neal tapped on the wooden arms of his chair in rhythm to the music. "What about you?"

"Oh, stuff, you know."

"No, I don't know. That's the problem. Did India help?"

"More than I expected," Henry said, not missing a beat. "The Indians teach mindfulness to reduce stress. They combine Buddhist beliefs with modern psychology techniques. I tried it out on myself and based on the results, I want to pursue it further. I don't feel as whacked out as when I arrived in India. Plus, putting some distance from everything that went on in the summer helped me to come to terms with it. Life in Puducherry suited me while I was dealing with everything."

"I can tell. You seem a lot more relaxed than when I last saw you."

Henry continued in a more thoughtful vein. "This was my first time to work in a meaningful way with society's cast-offs—the abused, the misfits. Working with them helped me deal with my own issues. Remember when I conspired to have you volunteer at a shelter for runaways last spring? I should have done the same thing for myself. I intend to do that more now."

Neal put his arms behind his head and exhaled. "You just demonstrated your vast superiority to me. Your dad tried to ruin you and you turn your frustration into something positive. You study psychology, help others, and emerge from the experience a better person. When he banished me, what did I do? Flee to Europe to become a supercriminal. What was I thinking?"

"I had that same question. But that was the problem—you weren't thinking. Back then you had the impulse control issues of a three-year old."

"Thanks a lot."

Henry grinned at him. "But you've made remarkable progress. You must be almost five now." He added more seriously, "Hey, don't beat up on yourself. You were much younger when Robert blackmailed you than when he did his number on me. Unlike me, you didn't have any family to call on. No support system. It was very different from my situation. Besides, it worked out all right for you."

"Yeah, in the end." And then there were all the interesting friends he'd made—Matthew Keller, Klaus Mansfeld … Europe had been a training ground for his criminal skills. He was putting those skills to better use now, but he'd paid a high price. Sometimes it felt like he'd made his own pact with the devil and the day of reckoning was drawing near. He was already branded at the FBI for what he did in Europe and they didn't know all of it.

Neal looked up to see Henry studying him. "Why don't you ever talk to me about Europe?" he asked.

"Too many ghosts in the closet. Better to keep them there."

"That's something you should reconsider. It's a lot easier to fight those ghosts when you let them out into the daylight."

Henry had a point, but Neal wasn't willing to open that door just yet, especially when the ghosts might fly out and haunt others. "When will you empty your own closet?"

"Wait a minute, we're talking about you, not me."

Neal didn't plan to let Henry escape that easily. "Isn't it time you set me a good example?"

"I already did," he insisted. "Mindfulness helped me face reality. You should do the same. For instance,"—Henry paused and made a production of randomly gazing at the ceiling—"oh, I dunno … maybe what's going on at the FBI? It's pretty clear you've been doing your best to avoid the topic. I went along with it while the others were around. But it's just the two of us now. Care to shine a light on that?"

Neal hesitated. "Sure. Complicated to get into long distance. A lot of it is confidential."

"We're not long distance now, and don't try to hide behind that phony screen of confidentiality. Remember me? The one who can read you like a book? What was that all about when Betty mentioned you almost didn't make it? I noticed how Peter jumped in. Do I need to beat up on Peter?"

"No, FBI maybe."

"Okay, spill it." Henry got up and stopped the CD. "It wouldn't have anything to do with this CD I discovered in your suitcase, _Unchained Melodies_?" Henry inserted it into the player and "Footloose" began to play. "I looked over the playlist upstairs. Hardly your usual fare. And then I read the paper inside with the names of those who selected the songs. Even Hughes? And it was 'I'm Free'? What the hell's been going on?"

Neal exhaled and eyed Henry. Over the past couple of days, he'd worked hard to bury those events in a deep pit and cover them over. Henry now wanted him to take a shovel and unearth them. Reliving the ordeal was not high up on his list of pleasurable experiences. "Someone tried to frame me at the FBI for the theft of a pair of priceless diamond earrings once owned by Marie Antoinette. They were stolen from the FBI vault."

Henry got up and started pacing. "What? Frame you again? What's with that outfit?"

"Keep your voice down," Neal urged. "I don't want the others to hear."

Henry stopped and turned to face Neal. "Tell me what happened."

Neal gave him a highly condensed version of what had gone on, attempting to play down the emotional fallout as much as possible. He avoided mentioning the anklet. He'd probably eventually tell him but for the moment simply exposing the frame attempt was painful enough. As he sketched out what had taken place, Neal found himself in the rather surprising position of wanting to protect Peter and the other team members from Henry's outrage. On the one hand Neal was still bitter over how OPR had treated him, but the ordeal had resulted in his loyalty to Peter, Travis, Jones, and Diana being stronger than ever. He didn't want to ignite Henry's fuse and see him attack Peter as the nearest available target.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Yeah, right." Neal huffed in disbelief. "Ask you to jump down from your elephant and fly seven thousand miles to my rescue? I don't think so."

"But you didn't run." Henry planted himself on the sofa, his eyes drilling into Neal.

"No."

"Think about it?"

Neal shrugged.

"But you didn't. What changed? 

"It worked out, this time. A lot of people had my back. I wasn't alone."

Henry observed him thoughtfully. "You have changed. Did Peter tell you about my warning?"

"No, when was that?"

"When you were in the hospital almost a year ago from that drug reaction at the New Year's party, I called on your cell and Peter answered. We had quite a discussion. He never told you?"

"He told me you talked, but he didn't go into the details."

"I wanted to alert him about your propensity to play the hospital game. That was before I'd met him and you had only been working a few weeks for the FBI. I also warned him that if you ever felt betrayed by the FBI, you'd run and go on a crime spree like he'd never seen. He'd wind up having to arrest you. Guess you proved me wrong."

No wonder Peter hadn't told him, but he must have been thinking about Henry's warning all last week. "It's different now. When I joined the FBI, I naively thought I would be working for the good guys. And at first my cases confirmed that. But this fall, a lot's gone down. I've learned that although not everyone in the FBI wears white, most do. I also have some real friends from my former life, not to mention new friends at Columbia. If it hadn't been for all of them, I probably would have cut my losses and taken off."

Henry wasn't letting up. "He bluntly asked the six million dollar question, "You still want to work there?"

"It's complicated. It's not just me. Am I putting Peter's career in jeopardy by staying? When I ran before—because of Robert—I needed to separate myself from you. There are some parallels now. It might be better for Peter if I put some distance between us."

"What do you mean?"

"It worked out this time—barely. But I'm beginning to realize what a liability I am for Peter. If I stay around, I may be harming his career."

Henry looked skeptical. "Do you know that for sure?"

"I've had enough people tell me so. It's something you should think about too. Having me work at Win-Win may not be such a great idea."

"Now you're just talking nonsense." Henry said, putting his hands on his hips. "You want my advice?" Not giving him a chance to answer, he charged ahead. "Why don't you put on hold a career-changing decision till after Columbia? The FBI is a great gig while you get your master's, and I need to get myself back into Win-Win mode myself. In a couple of years you can decide. See where I am at Win-Win. You may decide you don't want either the FBI or Win-Win. Early days, kiddo."

Neal propped up his arms on the wooden arms of the chair, resting his chin on his hands. "I know. I'm still processing it all. I can't make any prediction for what I'll feel like in a couple of months let alone two years. I knew there'd be hostility to me at the FBI, and that's proven to be the case. But I can say that next to you finding me, working with Peter has been the best thing that ever happened to me."

With that, Neal got up to stretch his legs. He was drained and ready for a break. Henry nodded toward the staircase behind Neal. He must have been thinking the same thing. Turning around, Neal saw Peter standing at the foot of the stairs. With the music on, he hadn't heard him come down. "How long have you been there?"

"I just arrived. Did I miss anything good?" Neal eyed him suspiciously, but Peter wasn't bad at giving an innocent look himself. "We wanted to give you some time to catch up."

"We have all weekend. Come and join us," said Henry. "The game over?"

"Yeah, let me call the others."

Soon, all five men had gathered in the basement. Joe sat down next to Henry on the couch. Looking over at Neal he asked, "You been giving Henry advice on how to survive me?"

Neal scratched the back of his head. "That's not easy. I'm not as familiar with your eccentricities as I am with Peter's."

"What eccentricities?" Peter shot back.

"An insane hankering for deviled ham. Addiction to paper work that defies belief. Polar bear infatuation with cold weather—"

"But to be fair," Peter said, "I should alert Joe to the infamous Caffrey personality traits."

"Hey, I'm the most reasonable, easygoing guy around."

"Be prepared for wild schemes, the total inability to follow directions or stick to any plan of any shape—"

"Aw, c'mon."

Luke laughed. "Should I separate you two in separate corners of the room? Which would be a real handicap, given that it's time for a Burke tradition."

"Oh no." Neal let out a groan. "Watch out, Henry. Mark my words, there's a boot camp in your future."

"Possibly," Luke said straight-faced, "although I assumed we wouldn't have to teach you."

"How are you at cross-country skiing?" asked Joe.

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Any chance of snowball fights instead?"

"Don't tease them, Joe," Luke reprimanded. "Boys, don't worry. The all-day cross-country ski trek doesn't start till tomorrow."

"Oh, swell," Henry said. "I feel so much better."

"For tonight we're staying inside. We'll open up some beer and play poker. It's a Burke Thanksgiving tradition for males only." Luke looked over at them quizzically. "You boys do know how to play poker, I assume?"

Henry and Neal exchanged quick looks as grins broke out on their faces. Henry said, "We may have dabbled. Four-up, three-down or deuce-to-seven?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Were we too kind?" Henry asked.

The poker game had ended at midnight and everyone called it a night. The house had grown quiet, but Neal and Henry found it hard to go to sleep. Henry had already claimed the sleeping bag, and Neal was lying in bed under the blankets. Betty and Luke must be rugged, because the upstairs was kept cold, particularly at night.

"Nah," Neal replied, "just good guests. We wouldn't want to fleece them on my first night here." They'd turned off the lights in the room and continued to talk. Neal wanted to hear more about Henry's experiences in India. Henry persisted in probing for details about the frame attempt. Neal found it was easier to discuss it in the dark when he couldn't see Henry's worried face in front of him.

"You said OPR's leading the investigation into Fowler. Do you trust them?"

It was fortunate Henry couldn't see the expression on his face. "Hughes spoke with them and was assured they'd conduct a thorough investigation. He requested Tricia liaise with OPR on the case. She's in D.C. now on a training assignment with the Behavioral Analysis Unit and had been looking into Fowler ever since Peter contacted her last week."

"Tricia's getting into profiling? I'm glad to hear it. I was impressed at the way she analyzed Hitchum's actions last spring and thought at the time the FBI would be stupid not to make greater use of that skill."

"I spoke with Tricia on Wednesday. She plans to build a case study of Fowler as part of her training with the BAU."

Neal expected Henry would have more questions about Fowler, but instead he changed tactics. "That CD of yours has lots of references to chains. You barely scratched the surface in your explanation. Did they lock you up? Throw you in prison?"

"Almost. Initially they wanted to. Hughes got them to agree to my wearing a tracker anklet. I was limited to the area around the mansion and Columbia."

"That must have driven you nuts."

"Yeah, it was a trigger. Before this happened, I never really thought about being imprisoned. Didn't think it would ever happen to me. It's different now. That was too damned close."

"You'll tread the straight and narrow from now on?"

"I vowed never to get caught."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"What …?" Neal woke up to find Henry shaking him. "Where are we?" Neal felt disoriented and confused. What was Henry doing here?

"It's okay." Henry turned on the lamp on the nightstand. "You're at Betty and Luke's. You were having a nightmare, kiddo. I'll be right back with a glass of water."

Neal sat up, running a shaky hand through his hair. He was still breathing heavily. That was too real. He blinked his eyes and leaned back on the headboard.

"Here, drink." Henry handed him the water.

"I wasn't yelling, was I?" Neal asked anxiously, hoping he hadn't awakened anyone else.

"No, just muttering. You were saying, 'You don't trust me,' repeated it several times. Were you talking to me?"

Neal shook his head. "No."

"Like to talk about it?"

"Maybe later." The vision was too disturbing. Neal had no intention of returning there. He sank back into the pillows and sipped the water. "Tell me more about India. What was your sitar teacher like?"

"Sanjeeb? He was quite a character," Henry said, chuckling.

Neal let Henry's words wash over him, not focusing on what he was saying. He'd have to get him to repeat the story sometime, right now just the sound of the words was enough …

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter woke up early on Saturday morning. The upstairs was quiet. El was still asleep and apparently everyone else was too. No matter how late he'd been up the night before, Peter found it impossible to sleep in. His mom was the same way. He headed downstairs to start the coffee, expecting her to join him shortly. The coffee had just finished brewing when he heard footsteps. Turning around, he was surprised to see it was Neal padding quietly into the kitchen. "You're up early. Perfect timing. Coffee's ready."

"Are we the only ones awake?"

"So far. Come sit over here. This is my favorite spot in the house."

He led Neal to the breakfast room. The table was in front of a large bay window which looked out on the backyard. The evergreens were laden with freshly fallen snow. A wooden bird feeder was mounted on a pole with a couple of other feeders suspended from a tall maple tree. The first arrivals had already showed up and were squabbling for perches.

"I can see why," Neal said as he settled into a chair. He held the mug with both hands, breathing in the steam. "Very peaceful, sitting back, watching the birds …"

Peter sat in a chair next to him. "How's Henry doing?"

"Good. We covered a lot of ground last night. He's come back from India in a much better place than when he left. Serene is not a term I ever thought I'd use to describe him, but he's getting there." Neal's voice trailed off. He gazed out into the yard, but his mind was elsewhere. Something was eating him.

"You sleep okay?"

Neal turned to face Peter with an odd expression on his face. "Do you trust me?"

Where was this coming from? Neal looked unexpectedly anxious to hear his answer. "Sure I trust you. When I came down last night, you didn't think —"

Neal dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "No, it wasn't that. Just a dream I had last night. It seemed so real. I guess I'm still reliving it."

"What was it about?"

"It was wild." Giving a small huff, he put down his mug and idly rearranged the small pottery birds on the table. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised. Henry had found the CD you made and wouldn't let up till I explained what had happened. He told me about how he warned you I'd run off to be a supercriminal if the FBI betrayed me, and that must have triggered the dream."

"Did you dream you were robbing the Louvre?"

Neal grinned sheepishly. "Almost. I'd robbed the Met and you chased me all over the museum. You'd been working out. I couldn't believe how fast you were. No matter what I tried, I couldn't escape. You finally circled around and caught me in the Impressionist Gallery where I was hiding behind a Monet." He paused and glared at Peter accusingly. "You arrested me."

"Well, yeah. If you're gonna rob the Met, I'm gonna arrest you," Peter said, making light of it. "So I finally caught you."

Neal wasn't impressed. "Only in a dream. Anyway, the rest of it didn't go so well. You threw me in prison." Neal hesitated. "It was bad," he added quietly. "I'm not meant to wear an orange jumpsuit."

"I agree. Pretty scary, huh?" Peter was also no longer joking. Neal looked too serious.

"Yeah, but it got worse. I escaped and you caught me again. Threw me back in prison. I finally talked you into releasing me, but you made me wear an anklet. I was working at White Collar but I was still your prisoner. And the worst part was you didn't trust me. Always checking up on me …" Neal gave a small dry laugh. "I should stop. You'll be waking up Noelle to analyze me."

"No, I won't," Peter assured him. "That was some nightmare. I can see where after everything that's gone on, you'd have one. But remember, I never doubted that you were innocent. And that Monday night, when it looked like you were robbing Regnier's, I knew you were pulling some con. I would have liked to have known what it was, mind you …"

"Need to know, Peter … I was protecting my pack."

"Just don't get any ideas about robbing the Met."

"How 'bout Regnier's? Purely in the interest of testing their security, of course. Everyone seems to believe I could pull it off. I consider it my civic duty to verify it and point out any flaws in their system. We could—"

"Unbelievable." Peter made a show of rolling his eyes. "Is this what you'll tease me with now? Getting back to last night, I didn't intend to eavesdrop, but I did overhear the tail end of your conversation with Henry last night. He was probably raking the FBI over the coals for the way you were treated."

"I told him it wasn't your fault," Neal said quickly. "I knew there'd be issues when I decided to sign up."

"Yeah, but not like what you experienced last week. No one could have anticipated that. I have to ask. After what happened, did it make you have second thoughts about working with the FBI? Henry's probably trying to get you to join him at Win-Win."

"Your career was at stake too, Peter. We don't know what the person behind this will try next. It might be better for you if I did quit. I won't leave New York. I intend to get my degree, but I could consult for Win-Win in the summer, go full time for my master's. You wouldn't be at risk. So, yeah, I've thought about it."

Peter started to reply, but Neal stopped him. "Let me finish. A year ago I intruded into your life, not stopping to think what the consequences would be for you. I was only thinking of myself. If I l quit, I'd stop putting your career in jeopardy. You could have your own life. You should have that opportunity."

Neal stopped and waited for Peter to respond. He turned to face the window, probably so as to not add any more pressure.

"This shouldn't be about me, Neal. But if you want to view it that way, consider this. Together we've been able to solve crimes I don't think I would have by myself. Our success percentage is much greater when you're part of the team. So purely from the standpoint of my career, you're a significant asset. Not only that, you balance me. I may overdo the control business, only occasionally, mind you, and you're a proven expert in being out of control. I know the inside of the box with precise detail and you're a genius at working out of the box. What I'm trying to say is we make good partners."

"Yeah, we do." Neal agreed softly.

"You're making a real difference in people's lives. You're helping others. But putting all that aside, what do you want to do?"

"If I leave, the other side wins," Neal said. "I don't want that. Did you hear the part where I said working with you was the best thing that ever happened to me? I meant it. Sure, I have enemies at the FBI. But they're a lot less violent than the ones in my former life." He paused and slanted him a grin. "Besides, who else will be able to rescue you when you get in trouble? No way will I let you face Azathoth on your own, partner. You know, you're not so bad at cons yourself. I've been thinking of some good ones we could pull."

"Ops, junior. We call them ops and I have a couple in mind, myself. Last week's escapade made me think—"

"I gave you ideas, huh? I like the sound of that." Neal's eyes lit up mischievously. "So, you think I'm a genius?"

"Minor genius … you know, like Ursa Minor."

"Now, wait a minute. You better not be calling me Baby Bear—"

"I thought I heard voices … and laughter." Betty walked in, wrapped in a warm velour robe with fluffy slippers, at the precise moment Neal locked his arm around Peter's neck and threatened to pummel him. "I'm not interrupting, am I? I'm glad to see you're pounding some sense in Peter's head. It's overdue."

His face red from laughter, Neal sat back down. "I can see why Peter likes this room so much, Betty. Great for coffee and conversation."

"Yes, and that's what I'm looking for right now," she said, sitting down opposite them. "I want to get to know you better and understand how you worked such miracles on Peter. He seems ten years younger than the last time I saw him. And that makes his recently retired mom feel worlds younger too. So start talking and share some more of that magic."

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for joining me for The Queen's Jewels! Neal and Peter will have a few days off to enjoy the rest of the Thanksgiving holiday with their family but will be back at work next week, when I return with a new story, An Evening with Genji. As New Yorkers prepare to celebrate Christmas, a new case provides the opportunity for Neal and Peter to fulfill their wish of working undercover together. The mystery concerning Fowler also continues with discoveries which may raise more questions than answers._

_I hadn't originally planned to include Henry in this story, as at the moment he's very preoccupied with what's going on in Caffrey Disclosure by Penna Nomen. But Henry insisted on sneaking in and I was delighted to get your feedback on his appearance. His warning to Peter about how Neal would react if he felt betrayed by the FBI occurred in_ _By the Book by Penna Nomen. Henry doesn't pursue the subject of Fowler with Neal because it's late and he knows Neal's already concerned that he'll overreact, but Fowler is now on Henry's radar._

_Neal's sensitivity to being called Baby Bear can be traced to his grandmother Irene Caffrey. When Neal was a baby, she called him Baby Bear because of the growls he made when he was unhappy and liked to dress him in fuzzy bear outfits. Her account was included in an interview she gave and is described in Caffrey Disclosure._

_Special thanks to Penna Nomen for taking time out from her own writing to act as beta reader and chief muse for this story. She came up with the idea that Neal might dream about what occurred in canon. In the TV series, Peter arrested Neal on December 7, 2004 which is roughly the same time as Neal's dream in this story. We're happy that we can make his arrest and subsequent imprisonment the stuff of nightmares, not reality._

_Thanks to all of you who took the time to add your own comments. Your feedback is invaluable in keeping the plot-kettle simmering!_


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